Game of Chance
by GoddessLaughs
Summary: Coincidence is a funny thing and apparently, so is fate. Followup to Waiting Game.
1. Chapter 1

o()o

**_Author's Note:_**_ Wait, what? Who are these people? What the hell is happening here? For a little more on Maire, you might want to read Martin's Masterpiece, for a little more of the plot, skim Waiting Game, this is it's follow-up  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Cigarette loads look like little pieces of tobacco that you put in smokes, they blow up when lit. _

o(1)o

Connor sighed and ran a hand through his hair looking in the refrigerator, trying to find something suitable to eat. There was a box of week old pizza, half of a questionable looking hamburger and something that once might have been Mexican, but now was merely green and fuzzy; there was nothing, however, that seemed particularly appetizing.

_We should really go shopping sometime soon._ He thought, finally plucking a soggy piece of pizza from the box.

Shooting a quick glance to the couch, where his twin dozed, lulled to sleep by the sound of the television, he slipped over and surreptitiously reached toward the remote control, only to have his hand slapped away.

"I'm watchin' that." Murphy protested without opening his eyes. "Leave it alone."

"Ye were fast a-fuckin'-sleep." Connor scoffed. "I could've thrown the fuckin' thing out of the window and tossed yer arse out after it and ye still wouldn't have noticed."

"That doesn't change that I'm still fuckin' watchin' it."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Connor refused to give in; if he had to watch to one more over-edited, piss-poor, low budget, daytime movie, he was going to lose his fucking mind. "What program was just on then?"

Murphy frowned, sighing as he shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable again. "I don't fuckin' know."

"That's because you were asleep, ye fuck, now let me change the fuckin' station."

Shrugging his shoulders and reaching up to rub his neck, Murphy sighed. "Fine have your fuckin' station."

Idly flipping through the channels, Connor found a decent action movie and Murphy nodded his appreciation.

"That's better."

"I fuckin' told ye didn't I?"

Murphy's eyes slipped closed and Connor gave him a fond glance, glad that his brother seemed to be adjusting.

When they had first begun their journey, Connor had bet that he and Murphy only lasted a couple of days cooped up in the car before they were at each other's throats. But Murphy had surprised him. Instead of filling the silences that fell with endless chatter and juvenile shenanigans, his brother seemed content to listen to the radio, gazing thoughtfully out the window and fidgeting quietly with a cigarette, barely speaking.

For the entire first day, Connor had been relieved that Murphy was behaving himself, saving him from the injurious fate of playing the license plate game, and the pranks that his twin loved to pull when he was bored.

After that, he began to worry.

During their second day on the road, he had watched Murphy staring quietly at the scenery slipping by, worrying the nail of his thumb between his teeth, his entire body screaming to Connor that something was amiss. Connor had tapped two cigarettes from his pack, lighting them both in a practiced gesture and offering one toward his twin.

"Are ye all right, Murph?"

"Aye," Murphy had responded, not looking away from the window and not noticing the offered cigarette. "Fine."

"Ye've been mightily quiet as of late. What's on your mind?"

Murphy had turned to look at him, his heart in his eyes, and Connor had given his brother a sympathetic smile as he suddenly knew exactly what Murphy was thinking about, hearing it as clearly as if his twin had spoken aloud.

_Danae. _

Reaching up, he had placed a hand on the back of Murphy's neck, squeezing gently. He didn't need to speak, just as his twin hadn't, both using the uncanny bond they shared instead.

Murphy leaned into his touch slightly, sighing. "I miss her so fuckin' much."

"I know ye do." The pain in Murphy's voice had made Connor's chest ache, he didn't like seeing his twin this way.

"We'll see her again, Murph, I promise. C'mon now and have a smoke with me, everything will be all right."

"If it's meant to be then it'll be, aye?" Murphy had said, taking the cigarette at last and taking a long drag from it.

"Who the fuck told ye that?" Connor had asked, surprised. Something so insightful coming out of his brother's mouth was virtually unheard of.

"Some blue-haired lesbian, back before we left."

Chuckling as he took a drag of his own cigarette, Connor gave his brother's neck another affectionate pat before moving to muss his hair. "Ye're fuckin' nuts, Murph, have I told ye that lately?"

"But its right, isn't it?"

"Aye, it's right, if ye and Danae are meant ta be than ye'll be."

Murphy had perked up after that, humming softly with the radio and nattering on to Connor, who was unsurprisingly relieved to hear his twin's voice. But occasionally, Connor had still caught him gazing pensively out of the car window.

It wasn't until the third day that Connor knew, without a doubt, that his brother was feeling better.

"Conn?" Murphy's voice had broken through the road hypnosis and into his thoughts. Looking, he saw his twin lighting two cigarettes, smiling around them. "Ye might want to pay attention ta the road." Murphy had said conversationally.

"Christ!" Connor had jerked the wheel, bringing the battered Ford back to the proper lane. "Why didn't ye fuckin' say something?"

"I just fuckin' did, didn't I?" Murphy had rolled his eyes, offering Connor a cigarette.

Taking the fag from his brother's fingers and inhaling a gratifying lungful of smoke, Connor barely had time to catch a glimpse of his twin reaching for the steering wheel before his cigarette had exploded.

"Ye fuck!" Connor had tossed the ruined smoke out of the window and wiped at the black he knew was coating his face. "Where in Christ's fuckin' name did ye get fuckin' cigarette loads?"

Whooping with laughter, Murphy had shaken his head, carefully keeping the car on the road from the passenger seat, while Connor sputtered and swore.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" His twin had hooted. "Ye look like a fuckin' cartoon!"

Swatting Murphy's hands away from the wheel, Connor had regained control of the car, calling his brother every detestable name he could think of, much to Murphy's amusement. Adding insult to injury, he'd then had to walk into the motel they had chosen for the night and rent a room, looking like his ACME stick of fucking dynamite had malfunctioned.

Despite his irritation with his twin's prank, Connor had felt a tiny twinge of relief seeing the sparkle in Murphy's eyes. That sparkle meant that they would be all right, more importantly, that _Murphy_ would be all right.

Now, several hundred miles, one church, and a shit apartment later, Connor watched his twin stretch out on the couch, already starting to drift back to sleep. Glancing at the soggy pizza in his hand, he couldn't stop a wicked grin from spreading across his face.

_Payback time. _

His aim as true as it was with a gun, Connor lobbed the drooping slice at his twin, chuckling as it smacked him squarely in the face. Murphy yelped, bolting upright, tomato sauce smearing his features and spattering his hair, a single slice of pepperoni sticking stubbornly to his forehead.

"Ye fuck!" he gasped, swiping at the mess sliding down his cheeks and neck. "That's fuckin' _cold_!"

Connor barely heard his brother's heated insults, now doubled over with laughter. Revenge was a brilliant thing, especially served cold straight from the refrigerator.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" he whooped, laughing all the harder when Murphy launched himself off of the couch, tackling him to the floor and mashing the remains of the pizza into his hair.

o()o

Maire loved the city at night. The rushing sound of traffic and below that, the rumble of the subway, the smell of greasy diners cooking their last meal of the workday, the array of lights and signs, all lit up in neon splendor, it was an ever-changing work of art.

She was out later than she should have been, especially in this part of town, but the day had been warm and the spring lighting couldn't have been more perfect.

Carefully juggling a camera in one hand and balancing Sasha on her hip with the other, she decided that it was time to head home. Sasha was a filthy mess from her adventures at the park and she needed a bath before going to bed, even though it was well past her young daughter's bedtime.

"Chee!" Sasha announced, waving her disposable camera and pointing a round finger at her mother.

Maire beamed her widest grin at her baby and a moment later was blinded by the disposable's flash. The camera was one of Sasha's favorite things, and had been since she was old enough to push the button, one thing she had inherited from her mother.

Most of the time Maire developed pictures of the floor or of her daughter's thumbs and shoes, but occasionally she discovered some amazing shots that Sasha had taken, especially of her big brother whom Maire ached for more than any one person should.

Plus, it allowed her to take Maire own photos in peace.

Pausing on the bridge that led to their neighborhood, Maire stared, captivated by the full moon that was rising over the water. "Wow," she whispered. "Do you see that, baby?"

A wide smile and a spit bubble in her ear told her that her daughter was as impressed with the view as she was.

Carefully setting Sasha on her feet and unsuccessfully trying to smooth the unruly mess of blond, Maire lifted her camera, deftly centering the image.

"You take a couple of pictures with Mamma, okay?"

The disposable's flash and Sasha's giggle answered her and Maire smiled down at her daughter. Sometimes, when Sasha looked up at her just so, Maire swore that she could see Martin beside his sister, smiling an identical smile.

Her masterpieces.

The shot was ideal and so was the lighting; the moon was fat and flawlessly white, casting a shimmering reflection over the fathomless depths of water. This was going to be a picture worthy of a frame, she was certain.

Taking several shots of the view, already making plans for mats and frames, Maire let the camera hang around her neck and reached out for Sasha.

And found nothing.

Instantly her heart picked up it's pace, pounding harder against her ribs as she glanced around looking for the chubby silhouette that would identify her daughter.

"Baby?" she called. "Sasha?"

From several feet down the bridge there was the flash of a camera and an unmistakable giggle.

"Sasha!" Maire called again, heading toward where she had seen the flash.

Sasha was there, halfway back down the bridge, happily waving her camera and Maire breathed a sigh of relief, feeling her stomach work its way back up from her shoes and wondered if she was the single most awful mother in the world for letting her daughter wander off alone in the dark.

"Mah!" Sasha squealed, snapping another picture.

"Come on, Baby." Maire said, extending her hand. "Time to go home."

"Omh?" Sasha inquired, raising the camera again.

The disposable flashed and Maire gasped as it illuminated a group of men several feet away on the bridge. There were at least four of them, all gathered around a fifth who was on his knees.

" _y vertiendo con almas estará siempre. __In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." _

Their words were carried on the wind, meaningless yet full of significance. Another flash from Sasha's camera accompanied a sound that was not unlike a champagne bottle being uncorked and all the men turned as one to look at her.

All except for the fifth man, who was now lying in a pool of gore at the feet of the others.

"Hey!" one of the men shouted, reaching into his jacket.

"Oh my God." The words came out in a rush of fear and adrenaline as she swept Sasha into her arms, turning and running away from the grisly scene as fast as she could.

She heard another champagne bottle pop and felt the wind of something whizzing past her ear.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god . . . _

Another gallon of adrenaline dumped itself into her veins and she crushed Sasha to her chest, shielding her daughter with her own body as best she could, and redoubling her pace.

They were shooting at her. Oh dear God, they were shooting at her and the baby.

They were right behind her and another bullet went speeding by. Maire knew she should be screaming for help, but all of her oxygen was focused solely on keeping her upright and moving. She couldn't stop running; if she stopped, they would kill her just like they had killed that man. They would kill her and then they would murder her daughter.

Feet pounding across the bridge, Sasha clinging to her neck, now screaming as she sensed her mother's alarm, Maire choked out sob. Her lungs were on fire and the sharp stabbing pain in her side reminded her just how long it had been since she had run. But she couldn't stop, God help her, she couldn't stop.

"_Chocha_!" one yelled from directly behind her, and she could hear the rasp in his voice, a wheezing pant that only out of shape men trying to jog could seem to manage.

Sprinting off the bridge, Maire looked around desperately for someone who could help her but the streets were empty. Where in the hell was everybody? There were hundreds of thousands of people living in this city, where were they when she needed them?

_Somebody help us, please help us, Oh god, someone please, help us. _

Maire gasped for breath, sobbing as she ran. She was almost there, almost home, almost safe.

She made it to her front entry a hairsbreadth before her pursuers slamming the door behind her and wrenching the locks into place as angry pounding echoed throughout her tiny apartment. They were shouting at her in a mixture of English and what almost had to be Spanish, their tone making her grateful that she couldn't understand most of what they were yelling.

"Under the bed, baby." She gasped, setting Sasha on the floor and forcing her voice to at least resemble steady. "Like when we play hide and seek. Don't come out until Mamma comes to get you."

A particularly hard blow made her doorframe shudder and Maire heard the door next to hers open.

_No, John. No, no, no, go back inside. They'll kill you._

"What the hell is going on out here?" John's gruff voice cut through the angry yells almost as efficiently as the loud noise of a shotgun being cocked. _The only insurance policy I'll ever need_, he had told her once.

"You boys get on out of here, now and leave her alone."

The incensed sound of John's voice jolted Maire from her stupor, what in God's name was she doing? Waiting for them to break down her door? Waiting for them to kill John and then kick in the door and kill her?

Scrabbling across the kitchen floor, she fumbled for the phone, her fingers thick and clumsy from too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen. Outside she could hear more yelling, but couldn't tell what was happening. After an eternity of waiting, listening frantically to the seeminly endless rings on the other line, the most perfect sound in the world came across the receiver.

"911, please state the nature of your emergency . . ."

o()o


	2. Chapter 2

o(2)o

It was time for another drink.

Leaning against the cool granite of the tombstone Connor raised a half-empty bottle of whisky toward his brother.

"Here's ta Rocco." He announced, toasting his deceased friend for what had to be the twentieth time that evening and taking a long pull from the rapidly emptying bottle.

Oblivious to the reiteration, Murphy lifted his own bottle in response, balancing precariously on large headstone a few feet away.

"To Roc." He echoed taking an enthusiastic swallow. Both brothers nodded to each other and turned their bottles over, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid onto the ground and watching as it soaked into the dark earth.

Connor looked up at his brother, noting the Murphy's smile had become a little wistful as he stared at the ground covering the Italian's grave and felt a pang of sympathy for his twin through the pleasant haze of alcohol. Rocco's death was a wound in Murphy that had never fully healed.

He had proven that much alone, as well as flabbergasting the fuck out of Connor, by remembering the Italian man's birthday.

Murphy could barely discern what day of the week it was much less call to mind any sort of occasion. But he had remembered nonetheless, picking a chunk of Szechwan chicken out of Connor's plate of rice, frowning as he examined the spicy meat.

"Roc's birthday is tomorrow, ye know." He'd said softly.

Connor had looked up from the Bok Choy he was hunting for in Murphy's take away container, surprised.

"It is, aye."

"I think we should pay him a visit, we haven't been there in a while."

Quickly doing the math, Connor had realized with a guilty twinge that 'a while' was actually well over six months. With the time at the hospital and all of the business with the Street Priests, the time had somehow just slipped by unnoticed, lost in all the commotion. He had also overlooked the fact that they were so near to their old stomping grounds and dimly wondered if McGinty's was still open.

"We should." He'd replied to his brother. "It's been too long."

Now, resting comfortably against Rocco's grave, bottle of whiskey nestled between his legs, Connor sighed and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, enjoying the night and his twin's company. There were still hints of winter in the air, the breeze too cool to be considered spring weather, but the alcohol in his system was doing a fine job of keeping him toasty.

Murphy was still staring at Rocco's headstone, worrying his thumb between his teeth. And Connor knew what his twin was thinking; it was the same thought that always flashed through his eyes after a little talk of their friend and too much alcohol.

_It was your idea to bring him in. _

The words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, holding his brother back as Connor had forced Roc to prove that he could handle the job Murphy had so willingly given him.

At the time they were just words, something to subdue his twin and allow Rocco the chance earn his stripes. But after Roc had been killed, his words had taken on a whole new significance for Murph and Connor knew that his brother still felt the culpability they carried in tow. There were times he wished to God that those words had never passed his lips.

"Perk up ye fucker." He said good-naturedly, raising an eyebrow at his twin. "Or I'll tell ye Roc's jokes until ye're bleedin' from yer fuckin' ears."

Murphy grimaced "I don't think I can fuckin' handle too many of that bastard's jokes at once, 'specially with your drunk arse tellin' them." then he brightened, offering Connor a genuine smile. "Although right now I'm polluted enough that they might be funny."

"I don't think there's enough fuckin' booze in the fuckin' world to make that bastard's jokes funny."

"Do ye remember the one he used ta tell about the midget and the whorehouse?"

Connor chuckled, there was no forgetting that one, he knew, he had tried. "What about the octopus and the bagpipes?"

Murphy choked on the swallow of whiskey he had been taking, coughing and laughing at the same time. "Fuckin' hell, Conn," he spluttered, "are ye tryin' ta fuckin' kill me?"

"I'm not," he said, his chuckle turning into a laugh as he brought some of Roc's most awful jokes to mind, "if I were tryin' ta fuckin' kill ya, I'd tell ye the one about the fuckin' toilet that grabs yer

balls whenever ye try ta flush it."

"Oh Christ, yer right," Murphy laughed along with him, the sound infusing him with warmth, "I'd forgotten about that one."

Laughter dying away into quiet chuckles, Connor sighed as an annoyingly insistent sensation swept through him. He shifted slightly, hoping the feeling would go away. It was no good however, he had waited too long already, and there was no ignoring it now.

He had to piss.

Getting to his feet, swaying slightly once he got there, he looked over toward his brother. Murphy was quiet again, staring at something only he could see in the distance, still perched precariously on the tombstone.

"Ye all right, Murph?"

Murphy nodded absently "I think there's someone fuckin' out there."

"Yer fuckin' full of shit."

"I am not! I'm fuckin' langered, there's a difference." His twin shook himself, and took another pull from his bottle, tipping his head back. The change in position threw him off balance and he tumbled off the granite marker with a surprised curse, a tangle of limbs and black wool.

Connor was certain he'd never seen anything quite as funny as watching Murphy go arse over teakettle off that grave. Laughing, he ignored his brother's indignant shouts and drunken flailing.

"Hey Grace," he whooped, "how's fuckin' charm school?"

From behind the tombstone his twin made an irritated noise and muttered something that Connor was certain wasn't polite, and then there was a muffled sigh, followed by silence.

Unnerved by the sudden quiet, Connor peered over the tombstone, seeing his brother stretched out over the newly sprouting grass, hands behind his head, and the whisky bottle beside him.

"Got comfortable." Murphy mumbled and Connor chuckled, shaking his head.

"Ye fuckin' dope."

Murphy merely shrugged in response, staring thoughtfully at the night sky.

"I need ta have a slash." Connor informed his brother, waiting for Murphy to nod before turning to meander off in search of a place to empty his bladder. "Be right back."

His mind pleasingly numbed by alcohol, Connor's main dilemma for the moment was finding the right thing to relieve himself on. He found an ancient tombstone, worn, anonymous, and weathered by time and figured the nameless bones underneath would understand. His back teeth were fucking floating after all.

Lowering his zip, he sighed and looked up . . . directly into the unseeing eyes of a stone angel, its cherubic face staring disdainfully down at him.

Connor blinked at it for several moments before making a face and rezipping his fly.

Maybe this wasn't such a good place after all.

o()o

Of all the people Maire would have expected to see in the cemetery that night, he certainly wasn't on the list.

She sat, legs curled under her in front of the small headstone, toying absently with a brightly colored hot-wheel car, buried alive beneath an avalanche of thought and emotion. She had lost track of how long she'd been sitting with her son, stubbornly ignoring the pins and needles that had prickled along her feet and legs until finally, mercifully, they had gone numb.

"I don't know what to do, kiddo." She whispered to the granite marker. "Everything's so wrong now."

It had been two nights since she had seen a man die at the hands of a group of criminals, and in those two nights, Maire felt she had been closer to hell than she could have ever imagined.

There had been a whirlwind of police and statements, and filling out forms that all looked the exactly same and repeating the same things over and over. She had complied with it all only to receive the most unsettling response they could have supplied.

"We'll keep an eye out for them, send an extra patrol car around at night, but there's really nothing else we can do."

The words had stunned Maire. Weren't they the police? Wasn't this sort of thing their job? How could they stand there, look her in the eyes, and tell her there was nothing they could do?

She had witnessed an execution. Those men had put a gun to another person's head, pulled the trigger, and murdered him, and she and her daughter had been right there and had seen everything.

And those murderers had seen her, chased her to her _home,_ and threatened her from the other side of her front door.

How could there be nothing they could do?

Her attackers had scattered at the first flash of red and blue lights, and she hadn't heard anything from them since, but there were times when she would catch a fleeting shadow outside of her window, or hear someone following her on her way home from work at the diner, turning only to find an empty street.

Threading her fingers into her hair making loose fists around the tangles there, Maire shook her head trying to dispel the idea. It was just her nerves making her paranoid; those men wouldn't be so thickheaded as to terrorize her after she had called the police. They had probably forgotten about her by now as it was.

She was safe.

_Safe. _

The word reverberated around inside of her, creating tiny ripples of disquiet that only emerged when she lied to herself. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Maire redoubled her efforts, trying to force herself to believe that she and Sasha were fine, that they were out of harm's way.

But deep down, she knew better.

Any chance of them being safe went out the window the second the disposable's flash went off.

She had found the brightly colored camera under Sasha's bed yesterday morning, hunting for a missing shoe. It had shone up against the worn carpeting like a treacherous rainbow, a painful reminder of what her young daughter had witnessed. The missing shoe forgotten, Maire had sunk to the floor, picking up the camera and turning it over in her hands thoughtfully.

Sasha must have held on to it the entire time. What were the chances?

Now, pulling her knees to her chin, Maire let her head fall forward, banging softly against the granite marker, still fidgeting absently with the toy car.

What were the chances that her daughter had captured those men on film?

Ungainly, heavy footsteps startled her from her thoughts and she turned around, her heart quickening, expecting to see an angry Spanish man aiming a gun at her head.

But instead, she saw him.

It took her a full second to realize that he looked familiar and another one to put a name with the face.

"Connor?"

She'd only met him once, the wounded man who had become so important to her son during his final stay at the hospital.

_A real-live superhero_ Martin had called him once_, just like in the comics._

She wasn't sure about the superhero part, but Maire knew that anyone who would spend a majority their recovery time with a little boy in hospice had to be something above the ordinary. And, she admitted a little guiltily, the blue eyes, beautiful smile and lilting accent didn't hurt either.

He looked down at her, surprised. "Aye. Do I know ye?"

His words were accompanied by the strong odor of alcohol and after a moment, Maire realized that he was utterly intoxicated.

"Strange place to be out for a drink isn't it?" she replied, purposefully ignoring his question, unsure if she trusted him enough to answer it.

"S'more of a memorial." He said, pressing his lips together. "We're celebratin' a dear departed friend's birthday today."

Nodding, Maire looked down at the hot wheel she was holding. She understood, all to well, the need to remember the dead, no matter how it was done.

Every toy car and action figure surrounding her son's headstone was testimony to that. She had brought him at least one every week since the day of his funeral, sometimes more, clearing away the ones that had broken or become dingy, replacing them with new.

When she looked up, Connor was frowning at her, no _past_ her, reading the small tombstone she was pressed against.

"Christ," he murmured, his words slightly slurred, making his accent seem thicker, richer, than when he had first spoken, "I do know ye. From the hospital, aye? Martin's Ma?"

"That's me." She said, pressing two fingers against her son's name in the carved granite, more from ritual than anything else. In the first months after Martin had passed away, she was certain that the R and T were going to be forever embedded into the pads of her fingers, so often was the action repeated.

"Jesus, what're the chances?" he muttered, swaying a little on his feet, still staring at her. "What're ye doin' here, then? We're a long fuckin' way from that hospital."

"We've always lived here, but Martin's oncologist moved his office to Mitchell County, so I got an apartment up there to save us the commute. After . . ." the words caught in her throat, still refusing to be spoken after all this time. _Martin died, after my little boy died, _

" . . . after everything happened, I moved back."

Connor nodded, remaining silent, and she looked at him, unsure what else to say. She wasn't exactly at ease with making idle conversation with a drunken stranger in the middle of a cemetery.

The awkward silence was broken by the stomach-churning sound of retching not too far away making them both jump. Connor grimaced and ran a hand through his hair.

"And that would be me brother." He sighed. "I should go see that he's all right and not heavin' on some high and mighty's grave somewhere."

Maire shot him an incredulous look, but he had already turned away and was ambling back in the direction he had come.

"Murph, ye fucker." His voice rang out in the stillness of the cemetery and Maire snorted, unsure if she should me amused or appalled by his actions. "Ye'd better be right where I fuckin' left ye."

Then quieter.

"Fuck, and I still have ta piss."

o()o


	3. Chapter 3

o()o

**_Nifty Fact for the Day: _**Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam _is the gaelic equivalent of "Rest in Peace" and literally translates into May his soul be on God's right hand side._

o(3)o

Maire scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling her fingers tremble and forced a deep breath into her lungs.

The detective in front of her was still talking, she assumed that he was trying to calm her down, but she hadn't heard anything past the first, awful words he had spoken to her:

"Signs of forced entry; the but the house is empty."

She had left Sasha with Ady, a neighbor girl, just barely a teenager, who wanted a little extra spending money. She had given Ady strict instructions to keep the doors locked and not to open them for anyone, promising to be back within a couple of hours.

But the clock informed her that she had lost track of time, and a couple hours had come and gone, unnoticed in the quiet of the cemetery. To Maire, it had seemed like just enough time to visit Martin and catch the subway back, but it had been much longer and now she was paying a horrifying price for her negligence, two children missing and her home broken into.

Flashing red and blue lights had turned her apartment complex into a strobe lit nightmare and all the other inhabitants of the building stood around silently, gawking.

Maire had tried to turn and run into the house, they had to be inside. _They had to be. _She had torn past the startled officers, dashing from room to room frantically checking all of Sasha's favorite hiding places, her heart jack hammering a little harder with each empty spot she found. _They had to be there. _

What in God's name had she been thinking when she left them home alone, with no one to protect them? How could she have been so reckless?

Finally one of the detectives had stopped her, grabbing her around the shoulders and pulling her back toward the front door and out of her house, telling her she couldn't be inside right now.

Maire had turned and given him a shove hard enough to make him step back, throwing her entire body into it. Didn't they understand? Her daughter was in there somewhere. _She had to be. _

A shout from across the lot made her look up and the detective's head jerked, looking over his shoulder.

"What?" he yelled in reply.

"We found them." Came the reply, somber and firm and the detective barely had time to reach out to Maire as her knees buckled, caught somewhere between relief and terror

_Let them be alive, please let them just be alive, oh God let my baby be safe and breathing, I can't lose her too, oh God, please let them be safe . . . _

It took a full minute to see past the spots dancing in front of her eyes and notice the officer making his way toward her, gently pushing a wide-eyed Ady, Sasha in her arms.

"Boyfriend just dropped them off." The officer said, using a tone that Maire was certain was usually reserved for cats stuck in trees and other false alarms.

It took her three steps to close the distance between herself and the children. Looking both of them over and finding them unharmed, Maire fought the urge to grab the frightened looking teen and shake the ever-loving _hell_ out of her.

"Are you insane?" She hissed, her fear transforming into anger with surprising speed. "Do you see these officers everywhere? What in God's name were you thinking?"

"But, Maire," Ady began. "I . . ."

"No 'buts'. Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in? Where did you go Ady? What was so important that you had to disobey me and cause this mess?"

Ady's lower lip trembled, "Brad got his driver's license today. He just wanted to take me out to dinner to celebrate," she whispered shamefacedly, "he paid for Sasha too."

"Dinner." Maire had wanted the word to come out incredulous and fuming, the 'mom voice' if there had ever been one, but instead it slipped out, barely audible as her temper collapsed on itself, weakened by the relief that both girls were alive and unharmed.

"I'm sorry, Maire." Ady was crying in earnest now "I didn't mean to make you mad."

"Mad?" Sasha inquired. Seeing her baby-sitter's distress, she screwed up her face in a way that Maire knew meant there was about to be a major toddler-meltdown.

Gathering the girls into her arms and releasing some of her anger with a heavy sigh, Maire pressed a kiss against the top of both heads, resting her cheek against the soft silk of her daughter's hair.

"It's okay." She said softly, reassuring herself as much as the children she held, "You're okay, and that's what matters. Everything's fine."

Looking up, she saw the detective that had been speaking to her watching the three of them, a sympathetic smile across his face as he fiddled with a pen, twirling it absently between his fingers.

"Thank you Detective Dol . . . Dollop . . ." she gave him an apologetic, embarrassed look and his smile became a chuckle.

"Dollapoppaskalious." He said with the resigned amusement of someone who had pronouncing his name for people since he was old enough to speak.

After years of being called 'Marie', Maire more than understood.

"Thank you Detective Dollapoppaskalious." She said, taking care to get the name right. "For everything."

He nodded, tucking the pen into his shirt pocket and extending his hand to her. "If you need anything else, here's my card."

o()o

What a night.

Dumping the last dustpan full of broken glass into the garbage, Maire sighed wearily and shut the trash can lid with a final sounding bang.

The officers had dispersed shortly after Ady had reappeared, slipping away one by one after the Detective had left. They had exchanged sidelong glances with each other when she tried to tell them that someone was after her, that this wasn't just some random thing and she needed help.

_Hysterical woman._ Their look said.

They had cut her protestations off with a myriad of excuses, all in the same bored tone that suggested they saw this sort of thing every single day; that the death threat that Maire was seeing was in her mind and nowhere else.

"We'll send an extra patrol car around at night, but other than that there's not much else we can do."

"Probably just kids up to mischief, nothing to worry about ma'am."

The phrases they offered her were canned, patronizing, and utterly maddening. Maire had wanted to shout at them that they were blind. Didn't they see how important this might be? How much danger she and her daughter could be in?

But they didn't see, they had ignored her and she had been left with a single business card and a head full of empty assurances.

Now, after Ady had been dropped off without pay and Sasha had been put to bed in Maire's bedroom for the night, Maire was left alone in a silent house with nothing but her fears for company.

She knew that all of the PD's justifications for the broken windowpane were inane, _those men_ had been to her house, they had shattered the nursery window and it was only by luck that Ady and Sasha weren't home to reap the consequences.

Maybe she should have paid the teenager after all.

One last glance around the nursery showed that she had gotten every shard of glass; nevertheless, she shut the door tightly, not wanting to be reminded of the broken window and the fragile sense of safety it had once provided.

Common sense said find somewhere else to stay, find a friend, find a motel, find anyplace but here. But she couldn't afford to go anywhere and it never ceased to amaze her how many of her friends had simply _disappeared_ when her son was diagnosed with leukemia. Her only option was to stay in this shattered place that had once been her sanctuary.

It was only a matter of time before those men had the opportunity to finish what they had started. Tonight had made her belief that it wasn't a matter of _if_, but now a matter of _when._ Shuddering as her imagination conjured images of what exactly they could do to her, and more disturbingly, to her daughter once _when_ came about, Maire swallowed and tried to focus.

She had to do something; she had to protect herself and Sasha.

As she settled into a kitchen chair, Maire picked up the disposable camera, and stared at it thoughtfully, struck with the sudden urge to smash the cursed thing into pieces, to destroy the object that had caused her so much heartache over the past few days. She couldn't. As terrified as she was of the men that were tormenting her, she couldn't destroy the only thing she had against them.

Something small and white stood out against the dark wood of her table and reaching out, she picked up Detective Dollapoppaskalious's card, previously forgotten, bending one of its corners back and forth, as she thought.

If Sasha got a good picture of the murderers, she could take it to the police. She could _make_ them see that she needed their help; she could prove it.

Rising from the chair, Maire tucked the Detective's card into the pocket of her jeans and made her way toward the tiny bathroom that served as her makeshift darkroom.

There was no way she was just going to let these men terrorize her, there was no way she was going to let them hurt the most precious thing in her life. She would make the police listen and if they wouldn't hear her out, then she'd find someone who would.

Shutting the door, and turning off the light, now slightly uncomfortable in the blackness she used to find so soothing, Maire let her fingers do the work as her mind wandered, already creating a plan of action. She began carefully mixing the chemicals she needed to develop the film, barely noticing the now familiar vinegar tang.

It was going to be a long night.

o()o

Connor awoke with his face mashed against Rocco's headstone and an empty whisky bottle jabbing uncomfortably into his back. Dew had beaded on the wool of his jacket and in his hair, mixing unpleasantly with the smell of cemetery peat and whisky.

It was still early, the first colors of sunrise barely tinting the night sky, and idly, Connor thought about Danae, wondering if she were out on her patio already, a cup of tea in her hands, waiting for the new day to begin.

He hoped she was.

Getting to his feet, wincing, he rubbed at his thigh absently trying to massage away the dull pain there, and looked around for his brother.

He spied Murphy several feet away, sprawled across a large concrete bier, snoring quietly.

"Murphy." He said, moving gingerly over to where his brother slept, shaking him gently. "Murph, get up."

Ever the light sleeper, Murphy was awake immediately, his hand automatically going for the gun strapped to his left side. Looking down at his twin amusedly, Connor didn't move, knowing that Murphy wouldn't hurt him.

"Mornin'."

Murphy blinked groggily, his hand falling back to his side as he focused on his brother. He made a sound that was part snuffle part grunt and ran a hand through his hair.

"Mornin'." he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What the fuck happened last night? I feel like utter shit."

"We got polluted, ye puked, and then passed out on Mr. Caldwell, here." Connor said, nodding toward the engraved name on the bier his twin was laying on.

For a moment Murphy looked at him, horrified. "Fuckin' hell, I didn't . . ." he made an expressive gesture with his hands, ". . . on Roc? Did I?"

Chuckling at the comically mortified expression on his brother's face, Connor shook his head, extending a hand, "Ye didn't. Ye made it ta the bushes so far as I could tell. "

Murphy took the offered hand, and Connor pulled him to his feet. "I can't believe we fuckin' slept in the cemetery," he said, patting his pockets before dipping into one and producing two cigarettes, "that's just fuckin' creepy."

Connor nodded and took a smoke from his twin, curling his hand around it as he flicked his lighter to life. "A bit."

Something was niggling at him, something he had wanted to remember to tell his brother, but the hangover was doing a good job of keeping it just on the tip of his tongue.

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, Murphy let his head fall back as he made a quiet noise of satisfaction deep in his throat.

"Happy Birthday Roc," said Murphy quietly, exhaling and sliding a hand over the headstone that marked the Italian's resting place. "_Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam_."

As he echoed his brother's words, placing a hand on the opposite side of the granite marker, a sharp, insistent, cramp through Connor's midsection caught him unawares, and he blew out a lungful of smoke with its intensity.

"I still have ta fuckin' piss," he said, astounded that his bladder was still in one piece, surely it must be fair to bursting at this point. "I never did last night."

Murphy snorted, "Ye fuckin' got lost didn't ye?"

"I did not!" There was nothing in heaven or hell that would ever make Connor admit that was exactly what had happened. He had gotten turned around and ended up . . . somewhere.

"Ye didn't?" Murphy's tone was incredulous and he smiled knowingly around his cigarette. Connor knew that lying to his twin was useless, Murph could see right through him, but he had to try, if nothing else for the sake of his own pride.

"That's right, I fuckin' didn't."

"Well then, what the fuck were ye doin' when ye were gone?"

His twin's question jumpstarted his brain and he remembered a small headstone surrounded by colorful hot-wheel cars and the clearest gray eyes he had ever seen.

Eyes just like her son's.

The thought of the grinning boy sent an unexpected pang through him.

_Do you still believe in Heaven, Connor? _

Sternly, Connor pushed the feeling aside making his way over to a large oak tree that almost certainly hadn't been there last night.

"Do ye remember Martin?" he asked, groaning as he relieved some of the pressure from his bladder, wondering if waiting so long would do some sort of irreparable damage to the damned thing.

_Connor MacManus,_ he thought with a smirk, _Notorious Saint of South Boston was felled today, not in a hale of gunfire as was expected, but by not having a piss when he fucking well should have. _

"Who?" His brother's voice was accompanied by the clink of glass as Murphy gathered the empty bottles behind him. Connor knew without looking that his brother was fastidiously peeling the labels off of the beer bottles as he collected them, cigarette pressed between his lips.

"The lad from the hospital, last fall, with all the masterpieces."

"I remember him, aye," Murphy replied, "Why?"

"I ran inta his fuckin' Ma last night."

Murphy scoffed, slapping Connor on the back so hard he almost soaked his shoes. "Go on outta that."

"I'm serious," he protested. "I ran inta her when I went ta have a slash."

"What the fuck was she doing here?"

Connor rolled his eyes, heavenward, praying for patience. "Martin's buried here, ye eejit."

"Oh." From the corner of his eye, Connor saw Murphy shudder and wondered how someone who's calling in life revolved around death could be creeped-out by the idea of a burial.

Even as he thought it, the shudder passed to him, making his skin prickle into gooseflesh.

"C'mon." he said, suddenly ill at ease amongst the ranks of the dead, "let's get the rest of these bottles and fuck out 'o here."

o()o


	4. Chapter 4

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I've been told that the first three chapters are often the hardest to write, and I have to admit that for this story, that was so, so true. Hopefully things will run a little smoother from now on. Thanks to MKOLO and Aranatta for their tireless work with this story. Also welcome and thanks to Archerlove who can brainstorm with the best of them! Believe me guys, when her own story is posted, it's going to be amazing!  
**Nifty fact for the Day: **_Mana_ is a Greek word for mother or mom. _

o(4)o

Detective Cyril Dollapoppaskalious looked from the pictures in his hands to the young woman in front of him and back. Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping that when he opened them again the photos would be different, or better yet, gone completely.

No such luck.

Painstakingly developed in black and white, they were four images of a gangland execution, they were slightly blurry and off center, but there was no mistaking what was going on. Most of the perpetrators' faces were hidden by the evening shadows, but a couple of them were in perfect focus and, lucky for him, Dolly recognized one of the bastards almost immediately. The shit was really going to hit the fan on this one, he could feel it.

"You said you took these on the Dunway Bridge?" he asked.

"The night they chased me to my apartment," she confirmed, gently wrangling the ball of blond energy that was with her, keeping the little girl within arm's reach almost intuitively.

Heaving another sigh, Dolly slipped the pictures in a folder, securing them in his desk drawer. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of Nicorette gum, popping it into his mouth and grimacing at the taste. Why did this shit always have to happen to him? Just once, he'd like to have a nice low profile case with a nice low profile guy to arrest.

"Thanks for bringing these in, Mrs. Kensett," he said, trying to make his tone more professional than he felt, "we'll look into it ASAP for you."

"That's it?" her voice was incredulous and her clear gray eyes darkened noticeably, reminding Dolly of gathering thunderheads. "I bring you pictures of a murder and I get a pat on the head and another dismissal?"

He pressed his lips together, looking up as though he could draw strength from the nicotine-stained ceiling. He understood the woman's frustration, really, he did, but that didn't mean he wanted her to cause a spectacle in his office. "We'll be investigating this with every available officer."

"I can't believe this. Detective, these men chased me to my _home_," she said, leaning forward over his desk, meeting his gaze evenly, "they threatened me and then broke the window to my daughter's nursery two days later. I am in serious trouble here, and I need your help."

"If you'd like I can have an extra patrol car . . ." He felt a rueful pang that he couldn't offer her something more, but at the moment, it was the best he could do.

"No." The word was sharp, firm, and accompanied by the girl's palms striking his desk with enough force to make him jump. The _mana_ voice, he thought with a shiver. Nothing in the world quite like it.

"Mah?" the baby inquired, looking up from the toy she was digging out of her mother's purse and the woman reached down, absently, smoothing her daughter's hair.

"I don't need an extra patrol car." She said, "If you guys actually _did_ send me all the cars you promised, which you won't, my apartment complex would look like the precinct parking lot. You need to find these men and stop them."

"We will, we will," he soothed, glancing past the blinds of his office, noting that most of the commotion outside of his door had stopped, people pausing what they were doing to stare. "Mrs. Kensett, you have to believe me when I tell you that we really are working on this for you. We're not going to let these guys hurt you or your daughter."

"Are you blind?" she snapped, "They came to my house threatening me not once, but twice. They aren't going to hurt us, Detective," she paused, glancing down at her daughter before lowering her voice, "they're going to _kill_ us."

"Mrs. Kensett . . ." he began, but she cut him off, abruptly gathering her daughter into her arms and rising to her feet.

"I can't just wait around until you guys decide that this is important enough for your time. I'll be long dead before you ever realize that I was right." She paused, hand on his doorknob and turned to look back at him, the irate expression on her face at odds with the fear in her eyes, "If you won't help me," she said softly, "I'll find someone who will."

Watching her retreating form, Dolly shook his head wearily, patting his pockets for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there. _Damn. _Opening his desk drawer he retrieved the pictures flipping through them again. Un-fucking-believable he thought grimly. This was going to be a mess. Focusing on the blurred faces in the photos, he felt a familiar aching burn in his chest. This job was going to give him another ulcer, of that he was certain.

o()o

Murphy missed Danae.

Staring out the dirty window of his and Connor's apartment, the images of his dream still fresh in his mind, Murphy was certain he'd prefer his usual capricious nightmares to the pleasant, almost cozy dreams that left him feeling hollow inside when he awoke.

In the daylight, his nightmares faded away, becoming foolish with the rising sun, or when he related them to Connor, submitting to his twin's amiable teasing. The dreams about Danae, however, left him aching for what he knew he couldn't have and the ache lasted for days on end. He didn't tell Connor about those dreams, the heartache that they evoked was private, his alone to undergo.

Murphy had never been the domestic type; he was too impulsive, to focused on what was happening at that very second to ever worry about the future. That's what he had Connor for, to worry and to plan. But more and more Murphy was thinking about the fate that he and his brother seemed destined to fulfill.

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that they were fated for nothing other than bloodshed, that there was no room for anything other than the smiting of evil men. The previously acceptable notion now disturbed Murphy more than he would ever admit.

Once, after they had first been called to duty, he and Connor had stayed up all night talking about the consequences of their actions and the trials they would face if they continued the path they had begun. Heads bowed, they had first prayed for strength, and then they had drawn that strength from one another, swearing that if they were going to follow this path, they were going to do it right.

They promised to show compassion both to the dead and the living, respecting the men they delivered and giving a second chance whenever they could. Sometimes, all it took was having the fear of God put into some of these punks before they straightened up. Each had vowed to keep the other safe in all ways, physically, mentally, and spiritually.

But above all, they had promised each other that they would never lose themselves in their mission, letting their existence revolve around nothing but the taking of lives.

They had renewed their oaths after their first undertaking, and again the night before they had stormed into a South Boston courtroom with their newly-found father, and blown a man's head off in front of room full of people.

They were unspoken promises now, long since committed to memory, but they were reaffirmed with every penny the Saints placed and every prayer they uttered. Three simple rules to keep them in the light of God.

Murphy hadn't realized how dangerously close he had been to breaking that last, critical promise before last fall.

Before he had met Danae.

She had filled a place in him that he hadn't been aware existed and now that they were separated, that place ached almost constantly, begging to be made whole again. He had lost count of how many times he had found the phone in his hand, halfway through dialing her number before slamming the receiver back down.

He couldn't chance her getting hurt again because of her association with them. He had told her that when they had finished the Street Priests that he would come back to her, but to what end? For someone else to use her to get to them? Murphy shuddered at the thought, remembering what the Street Priests had done to her, how bruised and bloody she had been when they had taken her from that mansion.

No. When he went back to her, he would be done for good, no more jobs, no more killings, no more sacred mission.

No more Saints.

He knew there was a good chance that such a thing would never happen, that he and Connor would never stop doing God's will, and he would never see Danae again.

He was beginning to understand what she had already known, what she had always known: that it was either her or the mission, and the mission was bound to prevail.

The ache in his chest intensified and Murphy ran a hand over his face, trying to will the miserable feeling away.

He failed.

_Help me._ He prayed, bowing his head over his hands. _Help me find the strength to do your will. Please, guide me. Bless me, and Bless Connor . . . _

"Murph?" As though he had heard his name on Murphy's thoughts, Connor shifted, his voice blurred with sleep.

"Aye, tis just me."

"What are ye doin' awake?"

"Just up for water," he lied, "go back ta sleep, now."

Connor made a muffled grunt, but instead of the normal sounds of his twin settling back to sleep, Murphy heard him get out of bed. A moment later, his brother's warm weight settled beside him and a blanket was thrown around them both.

"Ye've been sitting there an awful long time just for water," said Connor, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Murphy shouldn't have been surprised that Connor knew he was lying. His brother had always been able to separate the truth from dishonesty, even when he wasn't the one being lied to.

Instinctively, he leaned into his twin's touch, gleaning comfort from the contact as he had done his entire life. Few and far between were the trials that Connor couldn't lessen with a simple touch or affectionate pat.

"Murphy?"

Shaking his head, rousing himself from his thoughts, Murphy placed his hand on Connor's in a silent gesture of gratitude, unvoiced, but speaking volumes.

"Talk ta me." Connor said softly.

Closing his eyes, Murphy heaved out a sigh but remained silent.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed, his hand slipping away from his brother's "I can't."

A heavy silence fell between them, a very rare thing for the MacManus brothers and Murphy could almost hear the wheels in Connor's head turning, trying to suss out what was wrong.

His twin broke the stillness with a sigh, "It's all right, Murph."

"What?"

"I said it's all right. Ye don't have ta talk ta me until yer ready, just don't forget that I'm here for ye, aye?"

The ache in Murphy's chest deepened at how hard Connor was working to hide his concern. His brother's tone was painstakingly nonchalant, but Murphy knew better, he could hear how his words had wounded Connor. Hell, he could _feel_ it.

" Conn, I . . ." Murphy's voice broke and he stopped, swallowing as the lump in his throat threatened to split wide open. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Connor pulled him close, wrapping the blanket a little more securely around them. Not breaking their contact, his twin grappled with a package of cigarettes on the nearby nightstand, tapping one out for himself and offering one to Murphy. They lit them together and smoked in silence, each allowing the other the privacy of his thoughts.

o()o

Morning found Murphy still asleep on the floor, covered with Connor's blanket. Yawning, he stretched and sat up, looking for his twin.

The basketball coming at him was so unexpected that he almost didn't catch it, recoiling as he brought his hands up.

"Ye catch like a girl," came his brother's laugh from across the room, "flinchin' away from the ball like that."

Tossing the ball back, Murphy presented Connor his middle finger and rubbed the sleep from his eyes only to have the basketball come flying at him again.

"Get up." Connor said "We're getting the fuck out o' here for a while."

"Will ye quit trying ta kill me with that fuckin' thing already?"

Connor grinned, catching the ball as it sailed back towards his head and spinning it on the tip of one finger, "Nope. Not until ye get yer lazy arse up."

"Fucker."

"Quit yer cnawvshawlin' and let's go shoot some hoops."

Stretching again, feeling the bones in his back pop like a strand of firecrackers, reminding him that sleeping on the floor was not the best of ideas, Murphy got to his feet.

"What's gotten inta ye this mornin'?" he asked raising an eyebrow at his twin.

Connor gave a one-shouldered shrug, the ball still spinning in his other hand and, despite his irritation at being woken up, Murphy couldn't help but smile at the trick.

"I can't believe ye can still fuckin' do that." He said, shaking his head, remembering how diligently his brother had worked to master the feat.

They had seen the Harlem Globetrotters on the telly one summer when they were boys and Connor had spent the next three months practicing, repeating the motions over and over until finally one day he had gotten it and practically bowled Murphy over in his excitement to perform the stunt for his twin.

Grin widening, Connor made the ball dance from finger to finger, still spinning as it traveled across his hand, his face as delighted as it had been so many years ago.

"Of course I fuckin' can. Ye don't just lose talent like this."

Moving his hand away, Connor let the ball fall, bouncing it off of his knee, but instead of returning to his fingertip like it should have, it ricocheted in the opposite direction and Murphy barely had time to duck out of the way, deflecting the rubber missile as it went catapulting by.

"Ye bastard! Ye promised ye wouldn't do that one anymore. I had a black eye for two fuckin' weeks the last time ye tried it."

"We were fuckin' twelve." Connor protested, slowly backing away as Murphy retrieved the ball and made his way toward his twin.

Faking a throw, Murphy grinned as Connor reached up to catch the ball, and tackled his brother wrestling him to the floor.

o()o


	5. Chapter 5

o()o

**_Author's Note: _**Redima con Sangre_ is Spanish for Redeem with Blood and is the signifying tattoo of the Street Priests from Waiting Game.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** _Gracias por ahorro mi vida _means thank you for saving my life.  
_Hay lugares mejores para la natación: _There are better places for swimming.  
_Lugares mucho mejores: _Much better places._  
Dígame qué sucedió: _tell me what happened.  
_Materias de la familia: _Family Matters._

o(5)o

The basketball was as worn as the court created for it, the once pebbly orange now a dull and flaking brown that complimented the cracked asphalt and colorful graffiti perfectly. The day was shaping up to be warm and Murphy's hair was hanging damply in his eyes as he watched his twin, waiting for Connor to make a move that would leave him open to take his shot.

They had been playing one-on-one for the better part of the day, and Murphy was amazed at how much better such a simple thing had made him feel. As they played, he could feel the tension leaving his body, slowly being replaced with the gratifying fatigue that came with exercise.

"Are ye goin' ta do anything anytime soon?" Connor taunted, his face flushed, hair sticking up in wild angles. "I'm fuckin' fallin' asleep over here." He made a swipe for the ball, but Murphy turned away, unable to stop the chuckle that escaped.

Grinning savagely, he broke to his left, leaving his swearing twin behind as he took his shot. The ball swished through the graffiti-covered hoop making him the victor by one point.

Whooping his triumph, he pointed at his twin, laughing. "Yer buyin'."

God, it felt good to be doing this.

"Aye," Connor grinned, retrieving his t-shirt from where he had discarded it earlier and slipping it over his head. "I guess I am."

Locating his own shirt, Murphy used it to wipe the sweat from his face before tugging it on.

"Ye think it's too early for a beer?" he asked, already knowing what his brother's answer would be.

"Tis never too early for a beer, Murph."

Chuckling, his twin was nothing if not reliable, Murphy glanced across the park, his amusement sobering as he spied a group of figures crowded around something in the distance.

There were too many of them to be playing any single game, and they were too still to be up to anything innocuous. Something wasn't right.

"Have ye not heard a word I've just said ta ye?" Connor asked, slapping him on the back.

"Look." He replied inclining his head slightly toward the group.

Connor frowned, eyes narrowing as the assemblage quickly began to disperse, people scattering in all directions. "What do ye think that was all about, then?"

Shrugging, Murphy pulled a slightly misshapen cigarette from his pocket. "Couldn't say." He said, lighting up, still watching the group warily.

"We should fuckin' follow them, see what they're up to."

"What are ye, fuckin' Dragnet now? We can't be followin' those bastards, they'll see us for sure."

Connor frowned at him. "They might be up ta somethin'."

"That's it, no more Nick at Nite on the telly for ye. Fuckin' wannabe detective." Murphy muttered, earning a slap upside the head.

"Would ye fuckin' shut yer gob and come on?"

Sighing Murphy rolled his eyes, following his twin, hurrying to keep up with Connor's hasty stride.

"

Let's go get yer fuckin' facts Sergeant Friday."

About halfway across the court, Murphy saw what the group had been crowding around felt his heart kick up a notch.

Sticking out of the park's aging fountain was a pair of jean-clad legs, ending in well-worn sneakers. The top half of the figure was submerged under the murky water, unmoving.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he was by the fountain in an instant, hauling the body out of the water and easing it to the ground, his fingers searching for signs of life. The kid couldn't have been any more than sixteen; his face battered and bruised his chest frighteningly still.

"He's not breathin'."

Connor muttered something that could have been a curse or a prayer and Murphy heard the sound of his brother taking a few quick steps away before breaking into a run, going to fetch help.

Flicking his cigarette away, Murphy exhaled the last of the smoke from his lungs before drawing in a deep breath of clean air and leaning down to puff it into the kid's mouth.

"C'mon boyo," he said locking his elbows, hoping to God that he remembered how to do this correctly. "Stay with me now."

_One, _he counted silently in time with the rib-bruising pumps he was administering, _two, come on goddamnit, three, four, five. Breathe._

He puffed another breath into the lad's mouth, but the chest didn't rise and fall under his hand like it should have. Cursing, he pinched the kid's nose shut and tried again, filling the thin chest with an oath as inventive as it was vile.

Christ, how long had it been since he'd done this? Not since the class at the YMCA where he and Connor had stayed for their first few weeks in America. What was that, eight years ago? Ten? He couldn't remember.

_One, two, three, where the fuck is Connor? Four, five. Fuckin' Breathe, you bastard. One . . . _

An eternity later, he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother's boots pounding across the concrete walking path.

"Ambulance is on the way." Connor panted, placing a hand on his back.

Murphy gave his brother a curt nod before returning his attention back to the task at hand. _Breathe._

"Christ," Connor murmured, "I can't believe ye can still fuckin' do that."

Murphy couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, his words coming in between compressions.

"Of course . . . I fuckin' can . . . Ye don't just . . . lose talent . . . like this." He echoed his twin's words from before, sucking in another deep breath and pushing it into the kid's lungs.

Only to have it come rushing back at him with a torrent of slightly used water.

"Fuckin' hell." Murphy swore, turning the boy onto his side, giving him several hard thumps on the back as the lad gagged, purging himself of the water in his lungs.

"There ye go, boyo, get that shite out now." He encouraged and heard Connor laugh softly behind him.

"Nicely done, Murph."

The whoop of an ambulance siren made him look up, breathing a sigh of relief. It was about fuckin' time.

Adrenaline sparked through Murphy's veins, in search of a new outlet now that the physical exertion of CPR was finished. He ran a shaking hand over his face then through his hair, only to go back to pounding the kid on the back as he continued to heave up an amazing amount of water.

In a matter of moments, he had been pushed aside by two paramedics and the kid was in the safe hands of professionals.

One of the paramedics, a pretty little thing with dark hair and eyes that weren't quite hazel and weren't quite green, knelt before the boy, opening her medical kit and taking out a baffling array of equipment.

"Can you hear me, kiddo?" she called to him, "My name's Annie and my partner Leah here and I are going to be taking real good care of you okay?"

As she lifted the boy's arm, pressing two fingers against his wrist for a pulse, Murphy cursed under his breath, reaching out to get Connor's attention and nodding silently toward the kid's arm. Although Annie's gloved fingers obscured the end of the tattoo, there was no mistaking what it said.

_Redima con Sangre. _

o()o

"He's a fuckin' gangmember!" Murphy was pacing the floor of the ER, fidgeting furiously.

"He's a fuckin' kid." Connor corrected, watching his twin warily. He needed a cigarette and was certain that Murphy did too, but his brother refused to leave the emergency room, determined to stay until they could talk to the young man from the park.

"Man enough for the fuckin' gang, man enough to know right from fuckin' wrong." Murphy picked up the momentum of his pacing, bringing his thumb to his mouth.

"Murph,"

"Do ye have any idea how fucked up this is?"

"Murph," Connor tried again, but his brother continued as though he hadn't spoken.

"How the fuck do ye get mixed up in a gang at fuckin' fifteen years old? How?" the words were punctuated with animated, frustrated gestures, Murphy's ill temper apparent in every move.

Reaching into his pocket to ease two cigarettes out of the pack there, Connor held one out toward his twin. "Come have a smoke with me, we'll go and talk ta the nurses after."

"No, I'm going in there now."

Sighing, Connor felt his patience begin to wane. "Use your fuckin' brain, Murph, there are cops everywhere. What the fuck are ye goin' ta go in there and say ta this kid? Take me ta yer leader?"

Finally, his brother's pace slowed as the words sunk in. "This is fuckin' ridiculous." He said, finally taking the offered cigarette.

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but a harried looking nurse came up between them, touching Murphy gently on the arm.

His twin jerked at the contact, more of a tension-fueled twitch than anything and the nurse jumped, startled. Coming up alongside his brother, Connor placed a hand on the back of Murphy's neck and offered the nurse an apologetic smile.

"Ye have news on the lad?" he asked her, raising his eyebrows.

"He wants to see you." The nurse shot Murphy a cagey glance, pressing her lips together.

"Me?" His brother's voice was incredulous. "Why me?"

"The paramedics said you saved his life."

Connor felt Murphy recoil against his palm and frowned at him, wondering where his twin's previous bravado had gone.

"I . . . I didn't," Murphy stammered, his eyes wide, "No."

"Aren't you the one that did CPR until the ambulance arrived?"

Murphy remained silent, running a shaking hand through his hair. Finally, he met the nurse's gaze and nodded slowly.

"Then you're the one that saved his life."

"Come on, Murph," Connor said softly, giving his brother's neck a gentle squeeze. "Let's go meet this lad.

The ER room was cramped, filled with an array of medical equipment that was all too familiar to Connor. Beside him, Murphy shuddered forcefully and took a step closer to him, paling.

"Christ." He muttered, swallowing.

Reaching out, Connor slung an arm around his twin's shoulder, feeling the anxiety that was thrumming through Murphy as they surveyed the room. Now he understood; it wasn't the kid that had Murph worried, it was the room.

As though the memories had filled Murphy to the brim and flooded over into him, Connor shivered slightly, wondering how it would feel to return to a place so close to the one where your worst nightmare had almost come true.

"It's all right." He murmured quietly. "I'm right here, everything's fine."

Murphy grimaced, worrying the nail of his thumb between his teeth, "I can still fuckin' see ye, lyin' there . . ."

"Murph," Connor said, his voice low, "Look at me, now. I'm here and I'm fine. Everything's all right."

Reaching up, Murphy placed his hand over Connor's, nodding.

"Are ye goin' ta be all right?" Connor asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, encouraging Murphy to find the strength he needed in him.

His question was met with another nod, this one with more conviction, and a shuddering breath.

"I wish I'd had that fuckin' smoke now." Murphy said quietly and Connor chuckled.

"Come on, ye dope."

The kid had an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and an IV attached to his arm, a multitude of wires monitoring his every breath and heartbeat. At first, Connor thought the lad was asleep, but when they approached the bedside he opened one eye, the other swollen shut and a painful shade of purplish-black

"_Gracias._" He said softly, his attention shifting between the two of them, his expression questioning.

"_De nada_." Murphy replied, glancing at the monitors that surrounded them, frowning as his eyes flicked from machine to machine.

Connor watched his twin with interest, knowing Murphy understood what most of the equipment was for, and could glean a reasonable amount of information about the kid's condition from the puzzling display of lines, beeps, and drips.

Christ knew he'd had enough practice last fall.

"_Gracias_." The kid wheezed out again and swallowed, swiping at the wetness shining in his eye before reaching out to clasp Murphy's hand in both of his. "_Gracia por ahorro mi vida. Gracias._"

Murphy nodded, brow furrowing as he looked down at the lad, his expression caught somewhere between his current ill temper and the ardent compassion that Connor knew was so much a part of his brother's nature.

"Esteban." The kid said making a weak gesture toward his chest, and Connor saw that his knuckles were scraped and crusted with blood. No mistaking what those injuries were from. "Esteban Chavez."

"_Hay lugares mejores para la natación_, Esteban." Murphy said and Connor chuckled softly as his twin's altruism won out, just as he knew it would.

Better places for swimming, indeed.

Esteban nodded and laughed quietly, the sound distorted by the mask he was wearing. "_Si. Si. Lugares mucho mejores_. " He agreed.

Exchanging a long glance with Connor before returning his attention to Esteban, Murphy gave the teenager's hand a sympathetic pat, raising his eyebrows imploringly.

"_Dígame qué sucedió._" He said, coaxing the lad to tell him what had happened.

Esteban's face hardened, and the transformation from good-looking kid to uncompromising gang member was startling.

"_Materias de la familia_."

o()o


	6. Chapter 6

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to Aranatta for the concept of this chapter and to Archerlove for all the help. This chapter is dedicated to everybody else out there who wishes valentine's day would just drop off the face of the earth, and to MKOLO because she's having a crappy week. Love ya, Monkey!  
**Nifty fact for the day:**_ _I guess I've been slacking on this a little bit, so I want to say_ Tá brón orm! _(I'm sorry!) _

o(6)o

Arturo Mendoza leaned forward over the chess set, contemplating his next move as much as the man he was playing against. His opponent's technique was shrewd, unforgiving, and strategically merciless, much like the man himself. It had been a long time since Arturo had been forced to work so hard to win a game.

He wasn't sure he liked it.

"I hear," Arturo said, moving a crystal knight across the board, carefully avoiding the broken edge, "That you were kind enough to take care of that unfortunate problem I was having with one of my American _distribuidores_?"

The man moved a countering piece, shrugging as he did. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill on my behalf."

"I appreciate that, he was quite . . . troublesome." Arturo pursed his lips, moving his queen to take the other man's piece.

The man across the table smiled, more a quirk of his lips than anything. "It was my pleasure." He slid another piece across the board and Arturo raised his eyebrows in approval, taking a drag from his cigar. This was quite the game, indeed.

"Can I offer you something else to drink?" he asked, nodding toward his opponent's now empty glass. "Or perhaps a cigar?"

The other man's reply was cut off as the door to Arturo's office burst open and Tomas stormed in, his dark eyes flashing and furious.

"Arturo!" he began, but Arturo held up an irate hand, there was no excuse for such disrespect, especially in the presence of a guest.

"Tomas," he snapped, glaring. "What is the meaning of this? Who are you to enter my office in such a way? Have you no respect?"

"It's Esteban!" Tomas shouted in Spanish, ignoring his _jefe's _warning, clenching and unclenching his fists. "They won't fucking let me see him. Those _remalparidos _won't let me see my brother!"

"Tomas!" Arturo snapped, "You will control yourself in this place. Now, tell me what has you acting like a crazy woman instead of the man you are."

Swallowing, the young man took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. "The ceremony went wrong." Tomas's voice broke, and underneath the violent anger, Arturo caught a glimpse of the young man's fear. "Ramiro said that when they left, he wasn't breathing. They just left him there. They left my _hermanito_, my baby brother, facedown in the water and the hospital _won't let me see him_."

Arturo felt his pulse quicken, apprehension filling his chest with acid. He had taken Esteban under his wing at a very young age, offering the entire family protection while still in Columbia. He had long since come to think of the young man as a son, becoming closer to both brothers and their mother than was befitting a businessman.

"Is he alive?"

Tomas swiped angrily under his eyes, "If he isn't I'm going to kill every last one of the _lauritos _that fucking left him behind."

Arturo pressed his lips together, thankful that the man across the table from him didn't have a strong understanding of the Spanish language and therefore wouldn't be offended at the profanities Tomas was using

"Please, excuse the intrusion and my leaving." He said, giving his guest an apologetic look. "I'm afraid I've had some urgent family business come up."

The other man nodded, his face unreadable, "Of course. I'll see myself out."

"_Gracias._" Glancing down at the board, Arturo moved a final piece. "Checkmate." He said and rose to his feet, ushering the now shaking Tomas out of the room.

The man, who had a better grasp of the Spanish language than most gave him credit for, sat quietly in the empty room for a moment, still gazing at the board. Raising his eyebrows, he moved a last piece across the frosted glass. "No," he said, smirking, "It isn't."

o()o

Connor frowned down at his French fries, then at his twin, leaning back against the slightly greasy vinyl of the booth they were sitting in.

"Are we really goin' ta do this?" he asked.

Murphy looked up, pausing from shaking an obscene amount of pepper over his own catsup-slathered fries. "Aye. I don't like it any more than ye do, but a break's a break. He's the best source of information we've got."

"He's just a fuckin' kid." Connor said, grimacing as his brother set aside the pepper and reached across the table for the bright yellow mustard bottle, adding it to the concoction on his plate. "Christ that's disgustin', I can't believe ye're goin' ta eat that shit."

"Kid or no, he's a Street Priest. That tattoo on his wrist wasn't new; he's been with them for a while." said Murphy, picking up a multicolored fry and brandishing at his twin, "Ye should try it, ye might like it."

Connor shook his head, giving his twin an incredulous look. "There's no fuckin' way I'd like that, ye can't even see the fuckin' fry. What's the point?"

Shrugging, Murph stuffed the French fry in his mouth. "The point is how good it tastes. He said. "So we'll do this tonight then, aye?"

"Aye, tonight, they were talkin' about releasin' him in the mornin'." Connor picked up a chip of his own, glancing between the greasy yellow perfection and the condiment laden disaster his brother was creating. "I'm telling ye, nothing that looks like that can taste good."

"It's even better with ranch, I wonder if they have any." Murphy said, glancing across the diner toward the waitress at the cash register. "Ye do have yer gun on ye, right?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Of course I fuckin' do, and I swear ta Christ if you add one more thing ta that mess I'm goin' ta grind your face in it until ye drown."

Grinning, his eyes sparkling, Murphy leaned across Connor and picked up the saltshaker, giving it a single, deliberate shake over his fries.

Rolling his eyes, Connor took a playful swat at his twin. "Just eat it for fuck's sake and let's get out of here. We've got work ta do."

o()o

Maire settled Sasha a little more securely on her shoulder and stepped up into the bus, handing her ticket to the driver. Sliding into the nearest empty seat, she cradled the sleeping baby, kissing her temple softly.

_I will protect you._ She promised her daughter silently, _no matter what it takes. _

Maire had made some difficult decisions in her life; there was no question about that. She had made the decision to let her son die, choosing his quality of life over the few sparse additional weeks the chemo would have afforded. She had carefully arranged his funeral, selecting everything from what stuffed animals to place in the tiny casket with her son, to the kid oriented luncheon afterward, catering to the large number of Martin's classmates who had come to pay their respects with brightly colored carnations and hot-wheel cars.

Nothing could compare though, to the decision she was making to give Sasha to her father.

He had abandoned her almost two years ago, packed his things one night while she was at work and simply left.

A hastily scribbled note had greeted her at the door and informed her that he couldn't handle watching his only son sicken and die. He had apologized for his weakness and wished her all the best in life.

Maire had read the note, oblivious of the groceries she had dropped and scattered across the floor, unaware of the home pregnancy test that was now laying at her feet.

One child dying, another on the way and he was wishing her the best of luck. Well, he'd always had impeccable timing.

The bus slid into the next stop and Maire watched as several more people got on, wondering for the thousandth time if she was really doing the right thing.

She didn't want to let Sasha go; her daughter was her entire world, her reason for getting up each morning, and the idea of living without her filled Maire with a sense of heartache so deep and so wide that she knew it would never completely heal.

But it was better to ensure her daughter's safety, than to selfishly hold on to Sasha and risk getting her killed. Some sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

Martin had taught her that.

The driver announced their stop as the bus jolted to a halt and Sasha shifted slightly on her shoulder, blowing a spit bubble and snorting inelegantly, a trait that Maire found alternately disgusting and adorable.

"That's really gross, baby," she murmured to the child, gingerly getting to her feet and making her way off the bus.

The neighborhood was familiar, and memories played tug of war with her emotions, yanking her back and forth over the thin line that separated happier times with painful nostalgia. Greg had always been close to his family, and for a short while, she had been too, bathed in the light and love that had been curiously absent in her own family.

She'd only been foolish enough to go to them once before, when Martin's diagnosis had been shifted to terminal and he had cried for his Daddy, aching for Greg's comforting presence almost as much as Maire was.

She had gone to his parents' home, leaving her son alone in his hospital bed, determined to track down her absent husband. Only to be denied. His parents had politely, but firmly turned her away, informing her that his decision had been made and they were sorry.

Maire had slammed a fist through the window of their front door, shouting her frustration and grief through the shattered glass. How could they turn their back on their grandson? How could they be so heartless?

Now, she knew the answers to those questions all too well. She had come to understand how the word _cancer_ changed people, how it made them turn away.

Walking up to the neatly manicured lawn, she took a deep breath and rang the bell.

The door opened and Greg's mother poked her head out. "Maire?" she said, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Maire drew in a deep breath. "Linda, I need to get a hold of Greg."

Linda pressed her lips together, her expression managing to be sympathetic and disapproving at once. "Maire, we've been through this before." She said, slowly shutting the door in Maire's face.

Not this time.

Slipping a foot in the door, she gave it a formidable push. "Listen to me, Linda. I'm in serious trouble and I am not taking no for an answer."

Soft features turning into a pretty scowl, Linda gave Maire a look she was certain was held in reserve for clogged toilets and rattlesnakes. "Maire, stop this, please."

"If you won't do this for me, do it for your granddaughter."

Linda's eyes went wide, her gaze shifting to the still napping Sasha. "Granddaughter?"

"I was six weeks pregnant when Greg left me and now that Martin is gone, she's all I have left and I am _not_ going to let anything hurt her. I need him to take her. She needs to be somewhere safe."

For the briefest of moments, Linda's eyes softened and Maire felt a treacherous glimmer of hope as the older woman reached out to touch the sleeping baby. Then, Linda's eyes hardened and she drew her hand back, looking at is as though it had betrayed her.

"I'm sorry, Maire, but if Greg wanted to be found then he would have contacted you. There's nothing I can do."

"Goddamnit, Linda, listen to me . . ."

"No, Maire, you listen to me for once." Linda snapped, eyes narrowing, her generous face becoming pinched and cold,

"Greg has a new life now, another wife and a baby, a _healthy_ baby on the way, and you are _not_ going to ruin that for him. I don't know what sort of a mess you've gotten yourself into but it isn't his problem and it isn't ours. If you come here again I will call the police and have you arrested for harassment."

Linda's words struck like a fist and Maire stumbled backward on the charmingly painted deck, her stomach coiling over itself like a pit of snakes, barely noticing as Linda slammed the door, rousing Sasha.

_Another wife, a healthy baby . . . _

Somehow, the older woman's words had done something that the events of the past week had been unable to do and Maire barely made it to the bus station bench before the tears came. Sobbing, she sat Sasha down, and yanked her gloves off, staring at the ring she still wore. Greg might have left, but Maire had kept her promise with the single-minded determination she kept all her promises with.

Until now.

_Another wife, a healthy baby . . . _as though Martin's death had been all her fault, as though she were solely responsible for the illness that had killed her son.

With an angry cry, she wrenched the vile thing from her finger and threw it across the street acutely aware of how naked she felt without it.

_Another wife, a healthy baby . . ._

Sasha opened her eyes sleepily, frowning at her mother. "Mah? Crie?" she inquired, gray eyes wide, and Maire sniffled, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket.

"No, baby, Mamma's okay." She lied, arranging a smile on her face, even as the tears continued to slip down her cheeks. She had to be strong for her daughter; she couldn't fall apart now. "We just need another plan."

"Plan!" Sasha agreed, grinning as she reached for Maire's purse and the toy she knew was hidden there.

Pressing a kiss against the unruly silk of her daughter's hair, Maire closed her eyes, inhaling the unique scent; her daughter had to come first. She could have herself a nice long breakdown after Sasha was safe.

Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to focus, piecing together a strategy from the turmoil in her mind.

If she couldn't run, and couldn't hide from these bastards, than she would have to fight back. The police may not want to take her seriously, but they'd damn well sit up and pay attention when the photos from the disposable camera were splattered all over the newspapers.

Surely, the Globe or the Herald would be more than eager to have such a story.

Resisting the urge to bolt back to the charming little house and smash the front door's window a second time, she gathered Sasha into her arms, expertly settling the baby on her hip, and stepped back up onto the bus as it pulled into the stop.

This was one fight she wasn't going to lose.

o()o


	7. Chapter 7

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Love and thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, I'm absolutely thrilled to see so many familiar names from Waiting Game. You guys are the best readers a struggling author could ever ask for. :)  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Sorry guys, maybe it's because it's so late, but I can think of _a dhath ar bith _(nothing whatsoever) to put here. _

o(7)o

Esteban Chavez was still freezing. Lying under the heated blankets the nurses had piled on top of him, he was sore and exhausted, too weak to even want to move, but he was happy.

He was a man.

He had endured all of the hospital tests without complaint, barely noticing the pain as they poked and prodded him, checking for broken bones and other damage. They informed him that he had bruised ribs, a broken nose, lots of cuts and bruises, and of course, some water in his lungs.

None of those things mattered though, the only thing that mattered was that he had passed the coming-of-age ceremony, and he was a man. Arturo was going to be so proud of him.

Esteban's birthday was in four days, and it felt like he had been waiting to turn sixteen since the day he was born.

Arturo had given him the choice to opt out of the traditional beating that would mark him as an adult, a typical showing of the soft spot the older man had for him, but Esteban had shaken his head and grinned.

"If you could do it, _tio_, then so can I."

For as long as he lived, Esteban would treasure the look on Arturo's face when he had spoken, it was the same expression that he had endeavored to put there since he was a small boy in Columbia, a mixture of fatherly pride and respect that always made Esteban feel like he was the best in all the world.

Arturo had taken Esteban's face in his hands, smiling down into his _mijo's_ eyes, his own eyes bright. "Your mother will be very proud." He'd said, and Esteban knew then, that whatever beating came with turning sixteen, he would gladly bear it for the reward of his _tio's_ praise.

Now, lying in this hospital bed, the pain medication making him pleasantly hazy, the heated blankets comfortably heavy, Esteban barely noticed that he wasn't alone, he almost could have imagined the shadows moving across the darkened room and the telltale click of a gun being cocked.

Until someone pressed the icy barrel to his head.

"Don't fucking move," a low voice warned and Esteban froze as his agreeable fog crystallized into fear.

"Easy now," a second voice said from beside him as he started to struggle and Esteban whipped his head around toward it, startled. "You wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

This wasn't a part of the test, the English the men spoke lacked the betraying roll of someone who was more comfortable with Spanish, and Esteban could feel the danger he was in right down to his bones

"What do you want with me? I've done nothing to you," he said, ignoring the quiver in his own voice, trying to sound confident and unafraid. He was a man now and had to behave like one.

"We need to know about your gang, where we can find them."

Esteban glared at the shadow defiantly, his fear dropping away as if by magic, leaving him full of righteous anger.

He had always known that he belonged in the _Sacerdotes de la Calle_ and started begging Arturo to take him for the signifying tattoos when he was only six years old. At ten, his _tio_ had finally relented, carefully imbedding the ink into his skin himself with a pot of black ink, and a heated needle.

It had hurt like nothing Esteban had ever experienced, but he had held perfectly still, tears streaming down his face, watching the black of the ink and the red of his blood swirling together, amazed at how perfect they looked together. Afterward Arturo had bandaged his wrists and taken him to the other members of the gang, laughing, his eyes shining as he told them about the youngest member of the _Sacerdotes_. Not even his big brother had been so brave, waiting until he was almost fourteen before getting his tattoos.

He knew every member of the gang, from the lowest dealer to most important _jefes_, he knew their meeting places and had even been allowed to sit in on the business transactions a time or two, something that was virtually unheard amongst the other errand-boys. He was favored among the _Sacerdotes_.

And now, these evil men thought that they could threaten him into betraying the people he loved so dearly, the people that took the shattered Chavez family in with open arms after his father drank himself to death?

They were fools; he would never be disloyal to his _familia. _

Never.

The barrel pressed threateningly against his forehead and Esteban winced as it ground into a spot that was already bruised. "You are evil men." He gritted out. "I would rather die than tell you anything."

His _familia _was more precious than anything else in the world, and if he had to die to protect it, so be it. It would be a good and noble death, one that would make his _tio_ proud.

"You're trying my fuckin' patience kid." The voice growled, and underneath the anger, Esteban heard a hint of apprehension. They had expected him to hand over his _familia_ at the first sight of a gun, to blubber like a child and tell them everything to save his own worthless skin.

They hadn't counted on him being a man.

Esteban opened his mouth to tell both men exactly where they could go, that someday their wickedness would be repaid, but a familiar voice interrupted him.

"Esteban?" Tomas called, pulling the curtain aside, "Are you in here _'manito_?"

The gun barrel was removed from his head with surprising speed and Esteban realized what was happening a moment too late. He heard Tomas's surprised cry and the shadow yanked his brother into view, the gun now pressed firmly to his Tomas's temple.

"Tomas!" Esteban began to thrash and a firm hand pushed against his chest sending pain screaming through his injured ribs and effectively pinning him to the hospital bed. "Let him go!"

The shadows remained silent for a moment, each working to subdue a struggling brother. Esteban reached out toward Tomas as though he could rescue his brother from these hateful men.

_Please don't let them hurt my brother;_ he prayed silently, _he's all that I have. _

"Start talking." The first shadow said, "Or I blow his fucking head off."

The hand over his chest twitched slightly and Esteban heard the second shadow suck in a sharp breath, almost as if surprised at his cohort's words, the moment passed quickly though and the pressure was back, holding him down, sending new agony through his chest.

Feeling the treacherous prickle of tears behind his eyes, Esteban squeezed them tightly shut, trying to will this terrible scene away. What had he done to deserve this? He had never hurt anyone, never done anything wrong, why was this happening to him?

"He won't tell you anything," Tomas gritted out, fighting against the man that held him. A muttered curse and a sharp rap with the gun barrel stopped Tomas' struggles, but he continued to hold Esteban's gaze, his eyes burning. "Keep your mouth shut, Esteban."

If it had been anyone else, the choice would have been easy, each gangmember was a small part of something larger and more important, they were all expendable and they all knew it.

But it was _Tomas_ with a gun to his head; his brother and his best friend. Tomas, who had picked him up after every scraped knee, who had protected him from their father's beatings, often taking them upon himself, Tomas who had taught him all the important dirty words and how to put them together just right, who taught him to fight with his fists as well as his language.

This was his _brother_ these evil men were threatening.

"Better make a choice quick, kid," the second voice said grimly, "your gang or your brother."

Tomas winced as the first man ground the gun a little harder against his temple and Esteban heard his brother grunt as much from the pain as the fear. "You are evil men," Tomas said, his voice low, "and you will burn in hell for what you do today."

"Not before I send you there first." The first voice growled.

Tears began to slip down Esteban's cheeks. He couldn't do this; he couldn't choose between families, he couldn't divide his loyalties and betray the people he loved more than anything else.

He couldn't bear the thought of his _mami's_ face when he told her that Tomas was dead and that he had killed him.

Shutting his eyes tightly, turning his face away from this brother, the throbbing in his ribs paling in comparison to the acid grief that was eating away at his heart.

"There's a place not far from here," he whispered, miserably "where the _Sacerdotes_ meet for business sometimes."

"Shut your mouth Esteban!" Tomas shouted.

The sound of a second gun being cocked severed the sound of his brother's voice, and the pressure of a gun barrel returned to Esteban's forehead.

Tomas froze, his eyes wide and horrified. "No," he whispered, "Please, God, no."

"Keep talking." The second voice warned, applying a little more pressure to the weapon against his head.

It's . . ." Esteban's voice broke and he swallowed before continuing, "It's a big hotel with a conference room inside. I've run errands there before. I don't know when they meet, but it's always once during the week, you can find them there."

"You'd better not be lying to us boy, we know where to find you."

"I'm not." Esteban promised, praying to the blessed virgin that these evil men could see the truth in his eyes and would leave him and his brother in peace.

There was a beat of silence, and then the hand was released from his chest and the gun barrel was withdrawn, leaving Esteban and Tomas alone in the hospital room.

At once, Tomas's arms were around him and Esteban sobbed like a child, his injured ribs on fire, clinging to his big brother.

"Its all right, _'manito_," Tomas soothed brokenly, tears streaming down his face and mingling with Esteban's own. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"P_erdóneme_." Esteban gasped into his brother's neck. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't let them hurt you. I couldn't!"

"I know, _'manito_, I know."

"Boys?" Arturo's voice was quiet, surprised, it made Esteban sob all the harder. He had betrayed his family, his _tio; _he wasn't a man, he was a cowardly child, no better than a babe. "What is this?"

Tomas looked down into Esteban's eyes, gently wiping away the tears that were staining his cheeks, and then turned to face Arturo.

"We have to talk _tio_." He said, and Esteban was surprised at the endearment his brother used, Tomas and Arturo were at odds more often than not.

Arturo sat down, gathering both of them into his arms, stroking Esteban's head softly like he had done when Esteban was a child. After a moment of murmuring gentle comforts to them both, the soft Spanish rolling off his tongue, Arturo took a deep breath and looked down into two sets of eyes that were just like their mother's.

"Tell me everything." He said softly.

o()o

Murphy was certain he had lost his mind in that hospital room.

Bursting out of one of the more remote doors, he yanked the ski mask from his head, flinging it away and patting down his pockets for a direly needed cigarette.

He couldn't believe what they had just done. This wasn't a part of the mission; this was something lower and more vile than he could wrap his mind around.

It was something a hairsbreadth away from the men they destroyed, not at all the conduct of good men. The thought alone was enough to send a shudder skittering up from the base of his spine and he fumbled his cigarette.

"Fuck!"

Shaking, he retrieved the fallen smoke and began to pace, desperate to release some of the tension that was building within him. This wasn't what the calling was about. This wasn't what they were meant to be doing.

"I can't fuckin' believe this." He muttered, running hand through his hair, "What's fuckin' next, mobbin' little old ladies?"

A minute, pitiful, sound caught his attention and Murphy glanced over his shoulder toward his brother.

"Connor?"

Turning around he saw Connor frantically wrench off his own ski mask before sinking to his knees, retching.

Murphy was there at once; a concerned hand pressed against Connor's back as his twin lurched forward, gagging on a sob.

He held his brother, wordlessly allowing Connor to purge himself until his stomach was as empty as his expression, tears mingling with bile on the concrete.

Connor's anguish surrounded him, ebbing and flowing through him like a poisoned tide, and Murphy knew that however bad this entire debacle had been for him, it had been twice as contemptible for his twin.

Shoulders trembling, Connor grimaced as he spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Fuck." he ground out, turning away from the mess between his knees, awkwardly pushing Murphy away, and straightening. "Fuck."

Murphy ignored his brother's protestations, helping him to his feet. "C'mon now," he coaxed. "Let's get home, we've been here too long already."

Connor shook his head again, his eyes huge and dark, his face waxy. "Church first."

"Aye, alright," Murphy said softly, giving his twin a sympathetic glance. "Whatever ye want, Conn."

"I'm sorry."

Murphy gave his twin's shoulder a squeeze, urging him to start walking. "Ye've nothin' ta be sorry for."

"I've everything ta be sorry for. The look in their eyes . . ." Connor paused, spitting again and retrieving his mask from where he had tossed it. "It's like it wasn't even myself that did it."

"We did what we had to." Murphy hoped the condolence didn't sound as worthless as it felt and Connor nodded, not meeting his brother's eyes.

"Aye."

Silently, they walked together toward the familiar destination, turning down streets they had come to know by heart, both lost in their own thoughts, until at last they stood before the looming brick building that held their redemption.

Shuddering, Connor paused, staring at the stained glass windows that framed the heavy wooden door of the church, his eyes still glassy and unfocused. "Do ye think those boys were right? Are we evil men?"

"Of course we aren't." Murphy said softly, refusing to admit he'd been thinking the same thing a few scare minutes earlier. "Ye know better than that."

"Do I? I wonder sometimes."

"Ye'd fuckin' well better." He drew in a deep breath and blew it out. "Connor, I know what we did was hard on ye, it was hard for me too, but ye're makin' it out ta be worse than it is. We scared the fuck out 'o those lads for certain, but we didn't _hurt _them and we never would have, and that's what matters here."

"Words o' fuckin' wisdom." Beside him, Connor gave a barren sounding laugh, "When the fuck did ye become the older twin?"

Murphy snorted, nudging his brother compassionately. "Ye eejit, I've always been older, ye've just had your head too far up your arse ta see it."

"Bullshit." Connor offered him a hint of a genuine smile, and then sobered "Ye've changed so much since last fall; I can see it in ye more and more."

Murphy raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his twin, "Can ye now?"

"Aye."

"What I want ta know," Murphy said, tugging the church door open, "Is how ye can see all that with yer head so far up your arse."

Sighing, Connor gave him an affable shove and shook his head, slipping through the cumbersome doors of the church, but Murphy noticed that his brother was no longer shaking and a bit of the wretched, vacant, look had faded from his eyes, at least for the moment.

Connor slipped into one of the back pews, tugging his rosary from within his shirt even as he knelt, his lips already moving in prayer. Murphy echoed his brother's actions, settling to his knees beside his twin and clasping the well-worn crucifix between his palms.

Rubbing the first bead with his thumb, allowing his intuition to choose the language he prayed in, Murphy wasn't surprised that the words coming out of his mouth were Gaelic, comforting and kindly, a warm consolation in a world that currently seemed heartless and cold.

The entreaty melded with Connor's whispered Latin, turning their separate prayers into a duet of faith that echoed throughout the quiet church, heard only by the carven marble saints that safeguarded their flesh and blood counterparts.

o()o


	8. Chapter 8

o()o

_**Author's Note:** I hope all of you out there in PCLand have a wonderful weekend!   
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**_ Galya _is an Irish term for a baby or small child. To have a Canary is the equivalent of having a cow or a fit._

o(8)o

Cyril Dollapoppaskalious trudged into his office, a cup of day-old coffee and the morning newspaper in his hands, his second piece of Nicorette gum already in his mouth.

It was going to be a long morning, filled with reports and statements. He had gotten pathetically behind in his paperwork over the last few days and now had a nasty game of catch-up to play before the weeks end. Somehow, when he used to play Cops n' Robbers with the other boys from his neighborhood as a kid, the paperwork had never made an appearance.

Taking a deep drink of his coffee, grimacing at the way it clashed with the gum, Dolly unfolded the paper and promptly choked on them both.

Coughing and spluttering, coffee spraying every available surface, he drew in a raspy breath and let it out in an oath that would have had his mother spinning in her grave, were she dead.

On the front page, _the very front page,_ of the fucking paper was a perfect black and white photo of a gangland style execution, the participants' faces blurry, save for one man's, whose stood out in perfect clarity. He had stashed the same picture away in his desk drawer.

Apparently, Mrs. Kensett had decided to take matters into her own hands.

If she had only waited, he could have made an arrest that might have stuck, but Dolly knew there wasn't a chance of that now.

It was a sensitive subject; you couldn't just rush in and arrest someone like Idol Ford, bad things tended to happen to you if you did. The case had to be handled with discretion, prudence, and the appearance respect.

But Mrs. Maire Kensett had blown all of that straight to hell by taking her fucking pictures to the fucking press. Dolly knew that by now a dozen uniformed yahoos had already seen the paper and gone rushing out to play the hero. He also knew that the Chief was going to be pissed when they dragged Idol in here trussed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.

Staring at the picture, Dolly shook his head wearily. Idol-fucking-Ford. The bastard was getting sloppy.

Sighing heavily, he took another drink of his coffee and popped another piece of gum out of its container, eyeing it thoughtfully before putting it in his mouth. Surely, something that color couldn't be good for you.

There was going to be hell to pay for this, Idol would turn the entire fiasco around and make a mockery of the precinct like he had done so many times before. He would reduce these hardworking men to little more than monkeys in uniforms.

Right now, however, Dolly had a bigger problem to handle.

Once Idol found out who had taken those pictures, and there wasn't a doubt in Dolly's mind that he would find out, Mrs. Maire Kensett was going to find out exactly why one does not take incriminating pictures of high-powered officials to the Boston Herald. If she hadn't been in danger then, she sure as fuck was now.

Picking up his telephone, he shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk for the scrap of paper with Mrs. Kensett's phone number hastily scribbled on. He found it under a stack of week old reports and half a sandwich that was almost as old.

He'd been wondering where that went.

As the phone rang, he tried to compose the right words to civilly knock some sense into the woman, but a perky answering machine took him by surprise and he stuttered out some lame request for her to call him back as soon as possible, knowing full well that she wouldn't.

A couple of sips of coffee and another piece of gum later (he was starting to classify his day by how many he needed to get him through), Dolly got up from his chair and walked to the doorway of his office.

"Hey," he hollered to nobody in particular, still chomping on the awful yellow gum, "Any of you guys got a cigarette I can bum?

o()o

Idol Ford was signing papers, absently thinking about the _Sacerdotes de la Calle_.

He had a meeting with the _don_ of the organization later this afternoon, over another game of chess of course, and he had to admit he was rather looking forward to it. Absolution was by far the most lucrative drug he had ever helped to traffic and he could only imagine what the profit would be like once the American junkies got a taste of it.

Idol liked to think of himself as a financial visionary, he loved mathematics and statistics and excelled at both. The only thing he loved more than arithmetic was the law.

One of the many reasons he had followed in his father's footsteps to become a lawyer, he supposed.

It wasn't the justice that Idol loved, nor was it the outdated ideal of 'doing the right thing', no; he loved the law because it was something he could twist it and manipulate like clay.

Most ordinary people thought of laws as unyielding rules to abide by, codes of behavior set in stone, or steadfast policies with ferocious consequences if they were not followed.

Idol knew better.

Laws were full of loopholes. They could be bent and molded to be exactly what he wanted them to be. They could be interpreted, reinterpreted, and interpreted again until they said just about anything. There was always a way around the law, and that was what Idol loved the most.

There was no question that he was one of the best in his profession. He could spin the truth until it looked like a tangled mess of lies and he could bend a blatant lie until it was so real the witnesses admitted to having seen it, just as he described. But when all that failed, there was always the law and its many, many ambiguities.

He had inherited his father's firm almost four years ago and word of his talent had spread like wildfire across the crime syndicates. Now he was catering to the best and worst of the underworld.

It should have been enough to satisfy any normal person, but Idol knew that he was far from normal.

He was an ambitious man, an insatiable overachiever who loved the concept of getting in over his head, and he didn't mind admitting so. He understood his faults and embraced them. Faults were what made people human, they were what kept him in business, and he respected that above all else.

Without warning, the large paneled doors to his office burst open and a group of police officers filed in, guns drawn and aiming toward him. Had they been knocking? Idol wasn't sure; it was another flaw of his, the tendency to get lost in a task until the rest of the world simply faded away.

"Gentlemen." He said, raising a dark eyebrow, carefully setting down his pen, and placing both hands on top of his desk. "What can I do for you, today? A lien perhaps or maybe you'd like to go over your living will?"

One of the men strode forward, roughly cuffing his hands and Idol winced. Was such forcible treatment really necessary, he wondered, more concerned about the damage being done to his wrists than the guns pointing in his direction.

"Idol Ford," The cop said, his voice quivering with anticipation, giving Idol the impression of a Russell Terrier with its favorite bone, "you are under arrest for the murder of Clint Fretwell. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose not to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law . . ."

The officer continued, tugging Idol out of his chair and giving him a push toward the door. Patiently, Idol allowed himself to be manhandled, making note of every word the officers were saying, every move they made.

"Might I ask what proof you have of such a . . . severe accusation?" he asked.

Another officer stepped in front of him, brandishing a newspaper. On the front page, clearly printed, was a picture of the man he had killed almost a week ago and next to it, a picture that plainly depicted him standing with the group of _Sacerdotes_ he had made use of for that day, and the late drug dealer at his feet.

For a moment, he was flabbergasted, blinking at the photograph, wondering at the audacity of whichever Herald editor had made the decision to run with the story. Whoever it was, they were going to be very, very, sorry.

As quickly as it had appeared, the paper was whisked away and he was back to being shoved out of his office door, already making plans to end some unlucky editor's career for good.

Taking in a slow breath, Idol opened his mind's eye to that night, carefully scanning each moment, trying to recall someone that might have betrayed him. All the men he had 'borrowed' from the Street Priests had seemed devoted enough.

Then he remembered, the child with the camera and the frightened mother the _Sacerdotes_ had chased all the way back to her house.

Of course.

A slow smile played across his lips as he began to create his court strategy, carefully organizing the facts of that evening and the corresponding laws and loopholes. It was going to be a bit of a challenge, no doubt about that, but he could make it work. He fully intended to be out of jail by noon at the very latest.

He had appointments to keep after all.

o()o

"Ye've blood on yer shoes," observed Connor, motioning toward Murphy's boots with the barrel of his gun.

Murphy scuffed the toe of his boot along the carpeting, frowning at the crimson smears that were left across the pattern there. "Shit."

"Ye think ye could be a bit more careful." Connor said, tugging off his ski mask, and running a gloved hand through his hair, making it stick up in sweaty spikes. "We've been doin' this long enough."

"Oh fuck you, I can't help that the guy fuckin' bled all over everything in the fuckin' room before he died."

"Whatever ye say," a smirk and a raised eyebrow accompanied his brother's words.

"I'm fuckin' serious," Murphy protested, glancing around at the room full of dead criminals. Satisfied that nothing was moving, he exchanged a look with his twin. "Besides, it's not as if ye've never made a mess before."

"Whatever ye say," Connor repeated, his smile widening, and Murphy sighed; it looked like it was going to be a 'torment your brother kind of evening.

Despite having to endure his twin's teasing, Murphy was relieved that the vacant, bleak, look finally seemed to be gone from Connor's eyes.

They hadn't spoken of that night in the hospital, nor of the boys they had threatened, but one set of brothers prayed for the other almost as stalwartly as they prayed for forgiveness.

"Let's get the fuck out 'o here." He said, exasperated, and his twin chuckled, knowing he had won.

"Aye."

Following his brother out of the high-class hotel, Murphy automatically turned down the opposite hallway that Connor was taking, already knowing where they were to meet.

It was their first hit on the Street Priests since returning to the area, using the information they had forced out of Esteban and carefully planning the attack to ensure the gang members were appropriately surprised, allowing Connor and himself the upper hand. These bastards had proven themselves too dangerous to be taken lightly, add to that the fact that the kid had probably warned every member of the fucking gang by now and you got a volatile combination that could easily get you killed.

It had only been a few men this time, probably the ones that were too proud or too stupid to heed the kid's warning, but Murphy would happily take them out one by one if it meant he could someday put an end to the entire gang.

Slipping out the back exit, he unerringly made his way toward the alleyway where he knew Connor would be waiting, already making plans for a shower and a beer when they got back to the apartment.

A hand suddenly closed around his wrist, startling him as he was yanked back into the shadows.

Connor shushed him when he began to struggle, pressing an identifying palm against the small of his back. "It's just me."

"Connor, what the fuck?" Turning to face his twin, Murphy saw that Connor's eyes were serious and resolute. He knew instantly that whatever was going on was no joke.

"I caught two more o' the fuckers leavin' as I was comin' out."

Following his brother's gaze, Murphy caught a glimpse of two figures moving steadily down the street.

"Them?" he asked, inclining his head toward the men.

Connor nodded, already moving, "I figure if we tail them we might be able to find a few more."

"Are ye sure they're part of the Street Priests?" he asked, sidestepping a pool of light cast by a nearby street lamp, matching his brother's pace easily.

The men they were following didn't seem very concerned about anonymity, speaking loudly to each other in Spanish and gesturing rowdily.

Murphy couldn't catch all of what they were saying, but it sounded like they were about to dump a generous helping of pleasure into what was supposed to be business.

Connor shrugged, turning the corner and moving a little faster to keep up with the thugs, "I can't say for certain, but I'm guessing that whatever they need guns the size of the ones they're totin' for can't be good."

"How the hell can ye tell what kind o' guns they're carryin'?"

"I used the power o' me fuckin' mind." Connor replied, exasperated. "Ye eejit, I saw them strap 'em on as they were leavin'."

"Ye know, if this is a fool's errand, yer buying the beer tonight."

Snorting, his brother gave him a good-natured shove. "Ye just remember that when I fuckin' turn out ta be right."

Grinning, Murphy opened his mouth to retort, but Connor, reached out and touched his elbow slowing their pace.

"Look."

Murphy paused, watching as the men strode up to a small apartment on the end of a tired-looking complex and drew their firearms, motioning toward the front door

"Oh fuck." He murmured, fumbling in his coat pocket for his ski mask, aware of his brother mirroring the gesture beside him.

"I fuckin' told ye," Connor said, pulling his mask over his head, adjusting it to conceal his features. "Ye fuckin' owe me a beer after this is done, hell, ye might just owe me two."

"Shut it." Murphy said, his pulse quickening. What the fuck were these guys doing? The Street Priests had seemed too polished for something as common as breaking and entering.

He watched, the feeling of unease growing in his belly, as one of the men rang the doorbell, pushing the button with the barrel of his gun. Something was about to go very, very wrong here, Murphy could feel it.

The door opened and Connor sucked in a horrified curse, eyes wide beneath the black of his mask. Murphy looked over his brother's shoulder and felt his stomach constrict as he saw what his twin was staring at.

A little girl in pink footsie pajamas was peering out of the doorway, gazing, wide-eyed, up at the men standing in front of her.

One of the thugs brought his gun up toward the child with a disgusting, leering, smile, aiming for her small chest.

Un-fucking-believable.

"Hey!" the word was out of Murphy's mouth, echoing loudly off the brick of the alleyway, before he had made the conscious decision to speak.

Both men looked up toward Murphy's voice just as the door they were standing in front of shut slammed shut, providing a barrier of safety between the child and the gang members that wanted to harm her.

Beside Murphy, Connor took aim, his eyes narrowed and deadly.

"Motherfuckers," his brother ground out, pulling the trigger and watching as the would-be child killer fell with a silenced bullet and a spray of blood.

The other man whipped around, pointing his gun toward the alleyway where Murphy and Connor were, shifting his aim back and forth, scrambling for a target in the darkness. Murphy grinned savagely, seeing the thug's incapability. Their dark coats and masks made it easy to fade into the shadows, becoming invisible; the sick fucker didn't stand a chance.

The thug fired toward them, shattering the stillness of the night, and Murphy drew his own gun, returning a shot. He saw the man jerk with the impact, but remain standing firing again into the darkness where they were hidden.

"Yer losin' yer fuckin' touch, Murph," said Connor, already moving across the street for a better shot. "Ye must be gettin' old."

"Oh fuck you." He said indignantly, "There's nothin' wrong with my fuckin' shot."

Connor ducked as a bullet went whizzing overhead. "The bastard shooting at us tells me that there's plenty fuckin' wrong with it." He said gesturing toward a large fissure the bullet had carved in the brick over their heads.

Huffing, Murphy raised his gun and fired again, this time his aim was true and the thug tumbled to the ground, a gaping bloody hole in his chest.

Skidding to a halt behind his twin as they reached the apartment, Murphy looked down at the dead man, and gave a self-satisfied nod. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his fucking shot.

"See," Connor said, and even through the mask, Murphy could see his brother was a grinning, eyes alight. "I told ye we should've followed them. We just took out two more o' those bastards and rescued that galya."

"All right," Murphy conceded, tugging the pennies they needed out of his jeans pocket, offering a few of them to his twin, "Quit yer crowin' already."

But Connor was having none of it, caught up in the exhilaration of the night's events.

"This is more than just destroying the wicked, Murph," he said, taking the pennies from Murphy and kneeling over the fallen thug, "this is saving a life; we stopped the evil before it could even happen."

"Aye, fuckin' super heroes we are." Murphy said, chuckling, "might as well change our names to Superman and Batman or some such."

"More like Superman and Jimmy Olsen," Connor tossed over his shoulder with a grin, "seein' how often I have ta rescue yer arse."

"Fuck ye." he retorted good-naturedly.

Moving to kneel before the other dead man, Murphy offered a quick, grateful prayer to the heavens as he crossed himself, relieved to see his twin so high-spirited, especially after such a difficult week. Maybe things would work out for the best after all.

A flash of movement caught his attention and he turned to see an object rushing toward his head. There was no time to defend himself, or to warn Connor. There was no time to do anything at all before it connected.

There was a dazzling burst of pain, and then his world diffused into nothingness.

o()o


	9. Chapter 9

o()o

**_Author's Note:_ **_Look out guys, I think I might actually have a plot forming!! Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, the response Game of Chance it getting just absolutely blows me away. You guys are the greatest!_

o(9)o

Connor heard the unforgiving sound of something solid meeting flesh and turned to see his brother crumple to the ground. Calling his twin's name, Connor swung his gun around in a broad arc, still crouched on the ground, aiming in the direction of Murphy's assailant.

He had thought there were only two of the bastards, but someone had gotten the drop on them. He must have been mistaken, missed someone hiding in the shadows.

Maybe he was the one who was losing his touch.

Gun cocked and ready, a curse forming on his lips, he froze, seeing the person who had attacked his brother, all thoughts of confrontation momentarily forgotten.

Hair pulled up into an untidy ponytail, gray eyes steely and fierce, she was wielding a wooden bat, making threatening motions toward him with it. Her face was hard and set, her grip on the bat steadfast, but her hostile appearance was negated by the fact that she was wearing the most atrocious neon green bedroom slippers Connor had ever seen.

"Don't move." She gritted out.

"What the fuck are you going to do with that, tee off?" he asked, shooting a fleeting glance towards his twin. Murphy was still sprawled on the ground, unmoving, but the steady rise and fall of his chest informed Connor that his twin was all right, or at the very least, still alive.

"That's golf." She retorted raising her weapon and Connor could hear the tremor in her voice. "_This_ is a softball bat, and if you even think about budging I'm going to clobber you with it like I did your little friend there."

_Touché. _

"All right, take it easy, now," he coaxed, raising a submissive hand and lowering his gun, "I'm on your side."

"Why do I doubt that?"

She took a single step toward him, moving from the darkness into the watery glow of the apartment complex's security lights, and Connor blinked, frowning as he recognized her.

It was Martin's Ma. What were the fucking chances?

"If you'll just listen to me . . ." he began, carefully enunciating his words to hide his accent. It was a poor attempt, Murphy was better at those sorts of things, but it was preferable to having her identify them later on down the road.

"How about I call 911 and have you hauled to jail instead?"

Connor snorted, amused by her daring despite the situation, "Your mighty brave, threatening a man who's twice your size, and toting a gun besides."

Eyes widening, the blood drained from her face at his words, her previous courage vanishing, and Connor wondered if he could feel like a bigger arsehole than he did at that moment.

It didn't seem likely.

"I thought you said you were on my side." Her voice was shaking, but Connor saw her readjust her grip on the bat, preparing to belt him if necessary.

Taking another step forward, her gaze shifting, she blanched seeing the dead thugs on the ground behind him.

"You killed those men?" she asked, swallowing.

"Aye," he cringed at the slip, hoping she hadn't noticed.

"You killed them on _my front step_!"

"Would ye rather I let them finish what they came for, then?" he snapped back.

Martin's Ma remained silent, her eyes guarded and cagey, makeshift weapon still clenched tightly in her hands.

Connor shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache that was spreading upward from his knee, a lasting reminder of the events of last fall. He needed to stand up and stretch, but he had the feeling that any unexpected moves would earn him the same penalty his twin had received.

Silently they stared at each other, both unsure what to do or say and both unwilling to look away giving the other a chance to strike

"Mah!" a new voice exclaimed, startling them both. Their standoff was broken as Martin's Ma turned away from him, taking a cautious step backward toward the open front door where a chubby silhouette was now peering out.

"Get back inside." She said to the child, her voice firm and sharp, using the tone Connor was convinced that God imparted on someone only when they became a parent.

The 'Ma voice', He thought, and shivered. He was a grown man now, and had been for many years, but that voice was something he could never forget, and even now, it conjured images of his own mother, wooden spoon in her hand.

"Buh!" the child protested, unfazed, toddling unsteadily toward where her mother was standing and Connor grinned, she was just too fucking cute.

"Sasha!" the woman's eyes widened and Connor's mirth quickly turned to surprise, and he barely had time to holster his gun as the little one managed to completely dodge her mother, coming toward him, her arms outstretched.

"Kree!" the _galya_ cried happily, wrapping her small arms around his waist, almost knocking him over, "Kree!"

"If you lay a hand on my daughter," Martin's Ma whispered, her body tense, "I will kill you, so help me God."

Ignoring the threat, he gently disentangled the little girl's arms from around his middle, marveling at how strong a grip those tiny hands had. He tousled the already unruly blond mess and gave the baby a gentle nudge toward her mother.

"Go on ta yer Ma; she's about ta have a canary there." He said, his voice pitched low for the child's ears only.

"Canree?" the _galya_ inquired and Connor nodded, smiling down at her, taken aback that she was unafraid of him, looking as he did.

When the child refused to move away from him, he scooped her into his arms, receiving a delighted squeal as she clung to his neck, fiddling with the exposed beads of his rosary. Rising to his feet, wincing, he tried not to limp as he closed the expanse between Martin's Ma and himself.

"I would never hurt your daughter." He whispered softly into her ear, feeling a few loose strands of her hair tickle against his lips as he handed her the baby, and then stepped back a safe distance from the bat, trying to ignore the _galya's_ noisy protest at being separated from her new friend.

Turning and kneeling beside his brother, Connor examined Murphy as best he could without removing the ski mask that obscured his brother's features.

Martin's Ma paused, blinking at him, wrapping a protective arm around the baby, who was beginning to fuss, still reaching out him.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Connor disregarded the question, feeling his pulse pick up as he drew back bloodied fingertips from his twin's head.

He shook his brother gently, trying to rouse him. For an endless moment, Murphy remained unmoving, then his eyelids fluttered and he groaned, bringing a hand to the injured side of his head.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered, wincing, and Connor pressed a hand against his back, easing him up into a sitting position. "Ow."

"Can you stand?" he asked, and Murphy nodded eyes heavy and pained.

Carefully, Connor helped his twin to his feet, slipping an arm around his waist and supporting most his weight.

"Let's get the fuck out o' here then." He said softly, and Murphy grunted his agreement.

"Wait!" Martin's Ma called to them and Connor turned to look at her a curious eyebrow raised under the black of his mask.

"What am I supposed to do about these guys?" she shot an apprehensive look toward the corpses that were laying at the edge of the shadows in front of her.

"Give us ten minutes then call the police, let them handle it." Connor said, shrugging.

Martin's Ma stared at them in disbelief. "You show up at my house, murder the men that are trying to kill me and then just leave and tell me to let the police deal with it?"

He tried not to wince at the word 'murder' and felt Murphy stiffen against him as well. The word seemed so crude; too base to describe the righteous mission they were undertaking,

"Yeah."

"Are you insane?"

Connor snorted, "Probably," he said, and Murphy muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'fuckin' definitely'.

"Shut it," he grumbled to his brother and was rewarded with a weary grin.

"You have ten minutes." Martin's Ma said. "Then I'm calling 911 and reporting gunshots."

Nodding, Connor turned away, his arm still around Murphy's waist, now guiding his injured twin more than supporting him. He tried to stifle the ripple of disquiet he felt seeing how wet his brother's mask was, how much blood was soaking into the dark fabric.

Once they were safely away from the ramshackle apartment complex, Murphy slowed their pace a little bit, frowning.

"She looked mightily familiar." He said, tugging off his ski mask and pressing it against the side of his head, with a wince trying to staunch the bleeding. "I think I might know her from somewhere."

"She looks like her son," Connor replied, carefully navigating his twin around the corner, trying to gauge extent of the damage Martin's Ma had done. Murphy had a long, gash along his temple and his left eye was already starting to swell and blacken. Fuckin' crazy woman.

"What are ye on about?" Murphy asked, frowning.

"That was Martin's Ma."

"Ye've got ta be fuckin' kidding me." His brother's tone was incredulous and Connor shook his head, pulling his own mask off and sighing contentedly as the cool night air hit his sweat-dampened face.

"I'm serious. That was her."

"What're the fuckin' chances of that?"

"About the same as my chances of getting' yer arse home if ye don't start helpin' a bit," said Connor, gently nudging his twin in the right direction as Murphy's stride began to falter.

"Fucker." Murphy said.

"Lazy arse."

"Ye know," Murphy said, a sudden grin splitting his face, "I think she liked ye."

Connor snorted, amused, nothing said ardor like being threatened with a baseball bat.

_Softball _bat, he corrected himself with a chuckle.

"I think she liked ye all the more." He replied, sending his twin into fresh gales of laughter.

Turning another corner, still laughing quietly, neither Connor nor Murphy noticed the shadow creeping slowly behind them. To far away to actually be following the brothers, unable to hear their conversation, it nevertheless made all the same turns and twists they did, stealing quietly from alley to alley.

It paused, and held back as they entered their apartment building, waiting until lights came on, illuminating the dirty windows of a third floor apartment.

Part of the shadow separated itself from its larger whole and wriggled slightly.

"Kree?" it inquired softly.

"I guess so." The larger whole whispered, sounding fatigued, "It's too bad we couldn't get a good look at their faces, but this is better than nothing I guess."

"Faze." The smaller shadow agreed, giggling.

"Lets get back home baby, its past your bedtime, and Mamma has a lot to do once you fall asleep."

"Kay."

The two shadows melded back into one, and they turned away from the apartment complex, slipping quietly back the way they had come, unnoticed.

o()o


	10. Chapter 10

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Uh. . .heh. . .I sort of forgot to post the second half of this chapter, it's all fixed now though. Sorry about that guys, hope you'll forgive me. _

o(10)o

It was going to be a thirty-piece day; he was already working on number four.

Dolly stared down at the bodies at his feet, absently chomping on the Nicorette gum, back on the wagon so to speak. He watched impatiently as a jumpsuited CSI chalked an outline around each one. He never could understand why those bastards had to be so fucking slow.

Once he finally received the okay from the CSI, he knelt amongst the dead men taking in the details that surrounded him through the flash of the police cameras.

The meticulously crossed arms, the pennies in the eyes, the disturbingly accurate kill shots, he spotted the signs almost immediately. Dolly didn't recognize the dead men, but he would bet his boots that if he looked, he would find a rap sheet as long as his arm on each and every one of them. It was all excruciatingly familiar, flooding him with memories of the fiasco that had taken place almost two years ago.

As though he could ever forget.

Working with the MacManus family had been alternately the most terrifying and the most gratifying thing Dolly had ever done. For a brief moment, he'd felt like a hero, facilitating men dedicated to the same cause he was, and doing something that he knew would make a difference in the city, and nothing had ever felt quite as bad as giving that up and going back to his daily grind of paperwork and protocol.

It had taken him a good long while to accept that he was relinquishing the most overpowering sensation of accomplishment and of honor that he had ever known, and to go back to being the average schlub he had always been. But ultimately, he had done it.

And now those dickweeds were back. There was no mistaking the signs, the Saints of South Boston had returned home.

Grinning humorlessly, Dolly ducked under the bright yellow tape and stepped out of the rapidly filling hotel room, reaching for the cell phone at his belt.

No matter how bittersweet this catastrophe was for him, he knew there was someone else that was going to be even less thrilled about it.

The number was still on his speed dial, he never was one for technology or updates or shit like that, and as it rang, Dolly wondered what the hell he was going to say when the other party picked up the phone.

Somehow, _They're back,_ was the only thing he could think of.

o()o

"You're thinking about them again, aren't you?" Nigel's soft voice slid in between Smecker's thoughts like a blade swathed in satin.

For a moment, he contemplated telling the Asian that it was none of his goddamned business, and why was he still naked and in bed anyway, but sighed instead.

"Yeah," he replied, shrugging.

Nigel rolled over onto his side, cocking his head. He made no attempt to touch Smecker, no outward signs of affection, other than the barest flicker of dark eyes to the scar that marred the skin below Smecker's shoulder, but the tilt of Nigel's head told the Agent that he had the other man's undivided attention.

"Almost three months and not a friggin' word from either of them. They could have at least have called, or bothered to say that they were leaving in the first place."

Nigel rolled his eyes, pursing his lips "What are you, their mother?"

"Fuck you."

"I'm serious." Nigel protested, "These men are on a mission to take out the drug cartel that's pedaling every junkie punk's wet dream and you're pouting because they haven't called home?"

Pointedly ignoring the fact that he was right, Smecker saluted the Asian man with his middle finger, but Nigel merely snorted and pressed on, undeterred.

"Listen, Paul, you and I both know that they aren't exactly the 'checking in type'. As much as it would please you to think otherwise, you aren't Charlie and they aren't your Angels. You're not going to hear from them again until they need something from you."

"Nothing like being used," Smecker knew he sounded petulant and wished Nigel would do something, anything, so he could smack the other man, if for no other reason than to release some of his frustration.

The Asian didn't move however. His smile was kind, but his eyes were sparkling "Just think of yourself as a helpful guide on the heavenly mission of the Saints."

Smecker couldn't help the chuckle that escaped at the ridiculous words, and followed it with a scowl, not quite ready to be coaxed out of his bad mood. "Ha friggin' ha, asshole."

Reaching out, Nigel pressed a single, brief, finger against Smecker's scar before reaching past him for a pack of cigarettes,

"Don't worry," he said lighting a single smoke, taking a long drag before passing it to the Agent, "I have the feeling that you aren't ready for the has-been pasture just yet."

"Maybe I just won't answer the phone the next time they call, let them deal with whatever mess they get into on their lonesome," he said, taking in a lungful of smoke, grateful for the nicotine as it curled through his veins, soothing him.

"You'll answer." The certainty in Nigel's voice irritated Smecker and he gave the Asian his most withering stare.

"How the hell do you know?" he snapped, "Your entire world revolves around GQ and friggin' Sean Cody movies."

Nigel shrugged, unfazed by the aggravation in his voice or the insult, plucking the cigarette from Smecker's fingers. "I know, because you're one of the true good guys in the world, and the true good guys always pick up the phone, no matter what it costs them in the end."

The words sank in and Smecker realized that Nigel was right. He would be waiting for the next time the MacManuses called, and he would help them however they needed, because he felt, _he felt_, that it was the right thing to do.

"I'm on a mission from God," he deadpanned, and had the satisfaction of watching Nigel expel a painful looking amount of smoke through his nose, choking on a laugh.

"Oh that burns." The Asian gasped, his eyes watering. Finally catching his breath, he shot Smecker a reproachful look. "You are such a bitch, Paul."

Chuckling, finally allowing his irritation to dissipate, Smecker nodded, reclaiming the cigarette and taking another nonchalant drag. "I am, aren't I?"

"So how does it feel?" Nigel asked, a small smile quirking his lips.

"How does what feel?"

"Being God's tool?"

Smecker snorted, "I think I prefer to be referred to as a divine instrument, thank you very much."

Exhaling the last of the smoke in his lungs, Nigel leaned over and whispered into Smecker's ear. The Agent, turned wide eyes on the other man, never ceasing to be amazed at the filthy things that could come out of such a pretty mouth.

"Well, in that case," he replied, lifting an eyebrow, "I guess I could be a tool for a little while."

The men shared a rare, comfortable smile that quickly became a collective groan as the shrill ring of the phone shattered their moment.

o()o

Connor awoke to the sound of his twin swearing and the odor of slightly burnt . . . something . . . which could only mean one thing:

Murphy had woken up first and decided to make breakfast.

"What the fuck are ye doin'?" he asked, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbing his leg absently, trying to massage out the lingering ache.

"Good mornin' ta ye too," his brother replied, not turning around, jabbing at whatever was on the stove with a spatula.

"Good mornin'," he conceded. "Now, what the fuck are ye doin?"

Murphy sighed, "I'm makin' breakfast ye eejit, what does it fuckin' look like I'm doin'?"

"Do ye really want me ta anwer that?" Connor replied, chuckling as his brother tossed a glare over his shoulder. "I meant what are ye makin'?"

Lifting the skillet, his twin gave the contents one last prodding for good measure before returning it to the stovetop. "Breakfast burritos, I think."

Getting to his feet, Connor ambled over, looking over his brother's shoulder at the contents of the skillet. "Looks like it could choke the arse end of a skunk ta me." He mumbled, grimacing.

The comment earned him a blow to the forehead with the spatula, leaving a gloppy splatter on his face. Wiping the slime away, he filched the spatula from his brother's hand, holding it just out of Murphy's reach.

"Here, let me have a look at ye before ye go back ta slaughterin' that shite," he said skillfully dodging his twin's hands.

Murphy scoffed, but moved the skillet away from the burner and allowed Connor to examine the side of his head.

"Christ," he murmured, gently touching the gash there, it was ugly, but not deep and looked like it would heal just fine. The black eye was a different story though; his twin would be sporting that for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer.

Pressing his lips together, Connor wondered when he had gotten so good at assessing injuries. Consequence of the trade, he supposed.

"She had one hell of a fuckin' swing for a girl," he said, "ye look like hammered shit."

Wincing as his brother brushed a tender spot, Murphy snatched back the spatula and swatted Connor's hands away with it before resuming his culinary disaster. "I'm fuckin' fine."

Raising an eyebrow at his twin, Connor picked up their stained coffeepot, eyeing the sludge inside and trying to remember how old it was. The last time he remembered making coffee was at the beginning of the week, the shite would probably eat through the cup by now.

Shrugging, he grabbed a moderately clean mug and poured himself a cuppa. It was better than nothing.

Hell, it was probably still better than Danae's when he thought about it.

"How'd ye sleep?" he asked, setting the mug on a vacant burner to warm up.

Murphy shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, remaining silent and Connor frowned at the back of his brother's head.

"Are ye still havin' those dreams?"

His twin stilled, bowing his head, and Connor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Murph, how long have we shared a room? Did ye honestly think I wouldn't notice that ye weren't sleepin'?"

"I sleep enough."

Grabbing his cup of coffee from the burner, Connor took a sip, grimacing as much from his twin's tone of voice as from the lukewarm liquid. "That bad?" he asked.

Sighing, Murphy prodded the skillet one last time before turning off the burner and dividing the concoction between two plates. "They aren't bad," he murmured, almost too quietly for Connor to hear.

"What?"

"I said they aren't bad." Murphy turned around, offering him a plate, and Connor was taken aback at the emotion in his twin's eyes. Pressing his lips together, he held his brother's gaze, trying to understand, silently willing his twin to talk to him.

"They're. . ." Murphy sighed, setting the plate down and looking away, "they're nice, they're about a home, Danae, and a family, shit like that."

Brow furrowing, Connor scowled at him, nonplussed. "Well then, what's upsetting ye about them?"

Staring at a worn spot of linoleum, Murphy was silent for so long, Connor began to think his brother wasn't going to answer. When he did, the reply cut Connor to the quick in a way he was certain nothing else ever could.

"Because it can never happen."

As soon as the words were out, Murphy shook himself and took a playful swipe at his twin. "Don't worry about it, ye eejit, I'm fuckin' fine. Now, let's see what's on the telly."

o()o

The hot water felt like heaven.

The steam clung to Maire's hair making it stick to her neck in damp curls and the entire bathroom smelled like the bubble bath she had used, a juicy melon scent that was pure summertime.

Turning the faucet off with her toes, Maire breathed in the fragrant mist and sunk a little lower into the bathtub, sighing. Sasha was sleeping soundly in the other room, the baby-monitor picking up her soft snores now and again, and the rest of the house was peaceful, quiet.

It wasn't often that she allowed herself the luxury of a soak in the bathtub; usually she was too busy wrangling her children, keeping Sasha from eating paste and Martin from feeding it to her.

If it hadn't been that, he had been sticking cheerios up her nose. Maire never did figure out what was so amusing about snot covered cheerios, but it had provided endless entertainment for her young son, especially after he had discovered Sasha could sneeze them out and across the room.

She couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped her; provoked partly by the memory and partly by the cold beer she was sipping on. She had a long day ahead of her tomorrow, another round of statements to fill out at the police station and another bout of mindless, repetitive questions to answer about the dead men on her stoop. It was going to be ardous at best, and it would only get worse once Sasha got tired and fussy. But tonight was all hers.

Taking another sip of her beer, Maire closed her eyes, pressing the cool bottle to her forehead, her thoughts turning to the men that had saved her.

_Who was that masked man?_ She thought with an amused chuckle

There was something almost familiar about the one, the way he moved and spoke, the blue of his eyes, not quite hidden behind the dark fabric of his mask. It tickled along the edge of her memory, and she took a thoughtful sip of beer as she tried to place what was so familiar about him.

A murmur of sound came over the baby monitor and Maire paused, listening, waiting either for her daughter to go back to sleep, or the fussy cry that would mean the end of her bath.

There was a beat of silence and then Sasha began to shriek, a terrified keen that had absolutely nothing to do with being simply fussy.

Maire was out of the bathtub and in her robe before making any mindful decision to move. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she opened bathroom door, gasping as she got a face full of black smoke.

A shadow outside of her window sprang to life and she recoiled as something crashed through her front window, shattering against the floor with a burst of flame that spread across the carpeting like liquid hellfire.

Sasha's shrieks heightened as the apartment's fire alarms suddenly blared to life and Maire skirted the spreading flames, bolting toward the nursery and her daughter. The smoke burned in her nose and made her eyes water, she could feel it in her lungs, making her chest ache.

The nursery door was scorching hot, but Maire scarcely noticed the heat or the way the doorknob blistered her palm as she turned it, her only thoughts were revolving around getting to her child, keeping her daughter safe.

Through the rolling smoke, she could see that the newly replaced window was broken again and flames were beginning to lick at the painted wood of Sasha's crib, turning the once pretty pastels a greasy, menacing shade of black.

Keening between coughs and sobs, Sasha reached out toward her mother and Maire grappled for her, hauling Sasha out of the crib and crushing her against her own chest.

Retreating out of the burning nursery, she barely had time to duck out of the way as something sailed across the hall, shattering against the wall in an explosion of glass and flame. Recoiling from the explosion, Maire backed away from the blaze into her bedroom, the only place where the fire hadn't spread.

They had to get out!

Clutching Sasha to her chest, Maire hunkered in the furthest corner of the room, gagging on the greasy black smoke that was filling the apartment. Against her, Sasha had begun to hiccough, gasping for enough air in between terrified screams.

It wouldn't take long for them to die in this inferno, the smoke finishing the job long before the fire could. Coughing and wiping at the tears streaming down her face, Maire tried desperately to find a way out of the apartment.

The only exit left was a two-story drop from the last remaining window in her apartment. She could catch glimpses of it through the rising flames and churning smoke, across the hallway at the end of Martin's room.

_Please,_ she prayed frantically, rational thought dissolving into panic as her vision swam, the thick smoke making her dizzy and nauseated, _please let us make it out of here alive._

Choking on the fortifying breath she took, Maire lurched to her feet and sprinted through the blistering flames toward the window. Turning at the last minute, she tried to shield Sasha with her own body as they crashed through the glass.

There was a moment of weightless peace as they burst out of the blazing apartment and into the cool night air.

Then Maire hit the ground and Sasha began to scream.

o()o


	11. Chapter 11

o()o

_**Author's Note: **A gianormous shout out to Archerlove for all her help with this chapter, you're incredible, sweetie! Thanks also to all my amazing readers out there in PCLand, the positive feedback you guys give never ceases to make my day! _

o(11)o

The impact knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping and choking, surrounded by cool fresh air that she couldn't draw in. Sasha shrieked against her chest and for a moment, Maire was certain that the pain stabbing through her back and shoulder was going to kill her.

Flecks of light sparkled in front of her eyes as she struggled painfully to her feet, muffling a cry against the top of Sasha's head.

From her place against Maire's chest, Sasha's cries had become coughing yawns and Maire felt a frantic stab of terror.

_Smoke inhalation,_ she thought, and another round of adrenaline was dumped into her veins, lessening her pain and forcing her into motion.

_ Get to the hospital_.

Blinking as the world swam in front of her eyes and Maire forced in a breath only to release it with a violent cough. She loosened her grip on Sasha and checked her over as best she could. The toddler was covered in soot, tearstained and shaking, but she wasn't bleeding and there were no burns that Maire could see.

The blood spattering Maire's robe and skin and the almost irresistible urge to crumple back to the ground told her that she might be a different story completely.

_Hospital_.

Maire saw a group of men gathered in front of what used to be her apartment, watching it burn, grimacing, she stepped into the light, drawing in a stinging breath to call for help. The cry died on her lips however as she saw one of the men light something sticking out of a large liquor bottle and lob it up towards her apartment.

A breeze blew around her and on the sound of the wind she could hear their laughter. Somewhere under the pain and fear, Maire felt a tiny spark of righteous anger but a wave of dizziness quickly swept the feeling away. She had to get help.

Quickly, she turned away from the group of men, limping away from the burning shell of her apartment, keeping to the shadows as best she could.

_One foot in front of the other, keep walking. They didn't see us, they don't know we got out alive. _

Struggling to keep a hold on Sasha, fighting the impulse to stop and rest, Maire was so focused on her unsteady stride that she didn't notice the man walking toward her until she ran into him.

"Here, watch where the fuck you're going!" he snapped and Sasha made a resentful noise at being smashed between her mother and this stranger.

It took a remarkable amount of effort, but Maire managed to lift her gaze from her bare feet and the pavement to look up at the man, who was blinking myopically at her through the thickest glasses she had ever seen.

"Please help me," she rasped, "I need to get to a hospital."

"J-Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, "What the fuck's happened to you?"

"Housefire," she said, "can you help us?"

The man ignored her question. "Why are y-you wandering the streets instead of waiting on an a-ambulance?" He asked, frowning at her.

"I can't go back," she said, feeling a treacherous prickle of tears behind her eyes, "If they see us they'll . . ." she stopped, her heart suddenly hammering, as footsteps clattered behind them.

_They had found her! _

She frantically wondered how far she could make it before her mutinous body gave out and left her at the mercy of the men who had burned her home down. Her guess was not nearly far enough.

Maire backed into the darkness, turning away and bowing her head so her hair obscured her face, praying that whoever was coming would mistake her for one of the many homeless that wandered the streets at night.

Resisting the almost overpowering urge to cough, she listened as the stranger exchanged a brief greeting with whoever had been walking by. The footsteps moved away and Maire turned back around, wincing as a barbed-wire laced cough tore its way out of her lungs.

"What the fuck was that a-all about?" the man asked gruffly, inclining his head toward the retreating form of the pedestrian.

"They don't know we're alive," Maire said softly, "They're trying to kill us."

The distant whoop of a siren made her jump and she looked longingly toward the sound, wishing desperately that she could be with them; with people she trusted would help her, instead of hiding in the shadows with a strange man. But _they_ might still be there, waiting, and she would rather be in the company of a stranger who _might_ hurt her rather than a group of men she knew for a fact _would_.

"K-kill you?" the man repeated his gaze suddenly intense, and Maire nodded.

"Please, can you help me? I need to get to the . . . oh God."

A sudden horrifying thought struck her and she shuddered with the force of it.

"They won't find any bodies," she murmured, pressing a hand against her mouth as her hope collapsed in on itself, "they'll know we're alive."

They would realize that she and Sasha had escaped and they would check the hospitals first. Wherever she went, hospital, police, fire department, they would find her and they would kill her.

For the first time in a long time, Maire was at a complete loss.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks, "I can't let them find us."

The man was silent for several moments, his eyes narrowed behind the thick glasses, shaggy eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he nodded several times to himself and met her eyes.

"I'll get you where y-you need to go, someplace safe."

"There isn't anyplace." Maire shuddered as another nauseating wave of vertigo swept through her. The adrenaline was rapidly wearing off, leaving her lightheaded and exhausted. "They'll find us."

"Not where I-I'm taking you, they won't."

o()o

"Where are we going?" she asked.

It seemed like they had been walking for hours, and all of Maire's injuries were now loudly protesting every movement and breath. She had been keeping Sasha awake, afraid that if she fell asleep she wouldn't wake back up though the poor baby was as exhausted as she was, fussing sleepily against Maire's shoulder.

"We're going someplace safe," the man replied, "rumor has it that some d-dear friends of mine are b-back in town, they'll be able to help ye, if a-a-anybody can."

A stranger taking her to more strangers, the idea filled Maire with a new jolt of fear, what if he was taking her to one of _them?_ She made it two steps away before her knees buckled. The man caught her before she fell, hoisting her back to her feet with a grunt.

"Now y-ye listen ta me, lass," he said, his voice stern, "There's few places in the city that's safer than where I'm taking you. You're j-just gonna have to t-trust me."

Maire didn't want to trust him. She didn't know him or what kind of a man he was, but another surge of lightheadedness made her realize she didn't have much of a choice. The darkness edging her vision was steadily seeping inward and it was getting harder and harder to hang on.

There was nothing else she could do, save for collapsing in the middle of the street and praying that a good Samaritan found her before a bad one did. She'd never find some place to hide now, not on her own.

Maire gave a defeated sigh and nodded, allowing the man to put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her as much as he was supporting her.

"That's a girl." He said, patting her shoulder gently. "You just hang on to that wee one of yours and I'll take c-care of the rest."

o()o

The complex they were in was neglected and falling apart, an old industrial building converted into shabby apartments. The floors were dirty and sticky and bold-colored graffiti covered most of the original paint, brazenly declaring old loves, bereavements and devotions of the people the building housed.

Maire could have sobbed with relief when the finally stopped in front of a door. The paint was peeling away, revealing several more layers of equally dismal color, and the apartment number had been hastily scribbled across the front with a black marker. Curiously, though, the door was free of the graffiti that covered the rest of the hallway.

The man squinted at the number before giving the door several hard raps with his fist. "You're on your own now, lass," he said quietly, turning around and ambling back the way he had come.

"Wait, where are you going?" Maire felt a flicker of panic amidst the exhausted fog in her brain.

"They don't need ta see the likes of me, t'would cause more heartache than good, so it would. Besides, ye know w-what they say, absence makes the spice of life."

Before Maire had time to absorb the man's parting words of wisdom, the door opened and a dark haired man peered out, his eyes widening as they swept over her.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ."

"He said you could help me." Maire whispered, blinking back the dancing spots in front of her eyes, her body wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer much longer. "He said I'd be safe here."

"Who?" Pressing a hand against the small of her back, the man nudged her inside, glancing furtively down the hallway before shutting the door securely behind them.

"I didn't know him; he said he was a friend of yours."

"We don't have friends." A brusque voice came from across the room and Maire turned to see another man sprawled on the couch, a bottle in his hand.

She had to be losing her mind, the events of the day had finally caught up and she was finally going crazy, delusional, it couldn't possibly be who she thought it was.

"Connor?"

What were the chances?

o()o

Connor's eyes widened as he heard his name, it only took him a moment to recognize the bedraggled woman.

In-fucking-credible.

Carefully returning his gun to its hiding place between the couch cushions, he got to his feet, coming to stand behind his twin.

"_Est-ce que c'est que je pense qu'elle est?" _Murphy asked quietly over his shoulder, discretely returning his own gun to the back of his waistband and covering it with his shirt.

Is that who I think it is?

Connor nodded, frowning. "It is, aye."

Martin's Ma swayed precariously on her feet, the baby slipping a little in her grasp.

"Please," she said, her voice raspy and weak, "I need to get somewhere safe."

The baby in her arms wriggled sleepily, and sneezed, rubbing at her soot-blackened face.

"What the fuck do we do?" Murphy asked quietly, eyeing the child as though she might explode at any moment.

Connor opened his mouth to answer, but his words quickly turned to a curse as he reached out, barely catching the _galya_ sliding from her mother's grasp.

"Please." The word was no more than a whisper as Martin's Ma collapsed onto the floor of their apartment.

o()o

"She can't fuckin' stay here," Murphy said, on a return trip from the end of the hall, "We need ta take her to a hospital or something."

Connor shifted the baby slightly on his shoulder, frowning at the puddle of slobber she had left on his shirt, before following his twin's gaze. They had checked the little girl over first thing, finding her whole other than a couple of scrapes and scratches. Her mother was a slightly different matter, however.

Clad only in a filthy, threadbare bathrobe, the woman was still unconscious, unmoving from the place on the couch where Murphy had laid her.

Through the grime and soot, they had discovered several nasty cuts that needed tending to as well as an array of bruises and minor burns. They had carefully washed and bandaged as many of the injuries as they could, sticking to her exposed skin only, both refusing to undress an unconscious woman.

"Look at her," he said, "what the fuck are we goin' ta tell the doctor? The nurses?"

"Exactly what happened, that someone fuckin' dumped her on our doorstep, just as she was."

"And their goin' ta fuckin' believe us? Get real, Murph, ye know better." Connor said, running a hand through his hair, frustrated.

For a moment, Murphy tensed, flexing his fingers crossly and Connor wondered idly what exactly he was going to do with the baby he was holding if his brother decided to sock him.

But Murphy shook his head angrily instead, turning away and resuming his pacing. "We could drop her off and leave, then."

"Go on outta that." Connor said raising his voice, and the baby stirred slightly, frowning sleepily at his tone. "Two days ago, we fuckin' killed the men that were tryin' ta murder her, and then today we just fuckin' show up and chuck her at the ER doors? We'd have police so far up our arse we'd be chokin' on 'em."

"Well, we can't keep her!"

"For Christ's fuckin' sake, Murphy, she's not some stray cat!" Connor felt his patience beginning to splinter and took in a deep breath "Look, all I'm saying is let's find out what the fuck happened to her and then get her someplace safe."

Murphy threw his hands into the air. "Halle-fuckin'-lujah, he sees the fuckin' light! That's what I've been try ta tell ye all along!"

"That's exactly what I've been sayin' ta ye, ye moron."

"Then why the fuck do ye keep arguing with me?" Murphy paused in his pacing, rubbing between his eyes with a sigh, and Connor stopped, blinking.

Why the fuck _were_ they fighting?

"I don't have a fuckin' clue." He admitted, his anger slipping away, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He should have known, really. This happened more often than not when they argued and always had.

When they were younger, they would have scuffles that would leave eyes blackened, clothing torn, and lips split. When their Ma would finally pull them apart, boxing their ears as she did, they would find out they had been fighting about something they both agreed on.

"Fightin' just for the sake of being brothers," their Ma used to say shaking her head.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Murphy snorted, a grin replacing his scowl and Connor knew that his twin was thinking the same thing.

"Ye fuckin' eejit," he said, chuckling.

"Bastard."

"C'mon." said Murphy, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from their cluttered table and inclining his head toward the fire escape.

Connor followed, the baby still cradled against him, carefully ducking out of the window and out onto the ancient metal stairway.

The night was mild and a slow drizzle had started to fall. Under what little shelter the escape provided, his arm still wrapped protectively around the _galya_, Connor took the cigarette Murphy was offering him.

It took him a couple of tries to light the smoke one handed but finally he did, taking a deep drag. Carefully exhaling the smoke away from the sleeping baby, Connor looked up at the night sky, sighing. Beside him, Murphy leaned over the rusted railing, staring down at quiet the street below.

"What are the fuckin' chances?"

o()o


	12. Chapter 12

o(12)o

Murphy was being beaten to death by giant butterflies, patted gently until bones shattered and organs liquefied. There were dozens of them, beautiful, vibrant, and deadly as they loomed over him, fanning the air with their enormous wings, each flutter bringing him a little closer to his demise.

He couldn't think of a more stunning way to die.

They crowded around him, whispering to each other in a language he didn't know. It was okay that he didn't understand, though, because it was a language for butterflies only and he wasn't meant to comprehend it. Not yet anyway.

Every so often, one of the butterflies would take wing, soaring off into the sky, revealing glimpses of dark thunderheads, swollen and angry far above him. But then another would land, filling the empty space with another velvety rainbow and new set of wings would begin their dance across his body, stirring up a breeze that mussed his clothing and hair.

_Sich umziehen ist an das windet, _he thought and the notion sent a odd thrill through him. Change is on the wind.

The new butterfly unfurled an antenna, probing him gently, its globular eyes dark and curious, and Murphy met its gaze evenly, refusing to let it know what he knew.

_Change was on the wind. _

The dream faded slowly into wakefulness, but the tapping against his chest didn't stop. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring directly into impossibly wide gray eyes.

"Up?" the baby inquired, continuing to pat him lightly, her hands fluttering over his chest and arms.

"I am now," he said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes groggily.

The little one gave a self-satisfied nod and poked him with a chubby finger for good measure. "Hi."

Groaning, Murphy flopped back into his bed. He was suddenly very grateful that he had no kids of his own. "Llo," he mumbled, still rubbing his vision clear.

"Up!" A finger up his nose accompanied the word, and he batted her hand away, groaning.

Shooting a glance across the room, he saw his brother, still sleeping soundly, sprawled out on his back, one knee, the one that still gave him trouble sometimes, bent under the blanket. Early mornings love company, he thought with a smile.

"Why don't ye go and hassle him for a bit?" he asked, pointing at his twin and the _galya _turned to follow his finger.

"Up?"

"Aye. Go wake him up," he said, grinning as a sudden, wicked, thought struck, "Better yet, go jump on him."

"Jump?"

Murphy nodded, his grin widening.

"Jump!" the baby squealed, giggling and Murphy chuckled as she vaulted off of his mattress, and climbed up onto Connor's, becoming a small blonde missile that was aimed directly at his twin, bouncing happily on the bed.

She landed squarely on Connor's midsection and Murphy whooped at his brother's surprised 'oof'.

"I'm up! I'm fuckin' up!" Connor gasped, grabbing the baby and plopping her on the bed, giving her several bounces and chuckling as her giggles dissolved into delighted screams.

"Mor!"

Connor stopped bouncing her and shook his head. "Not 'til I have a slash, darlin' or we'll both have a mess on our hands."

Letting go of her, Connor looked at his hands, grimacing. "She's fuckin' filthy," he said and Murphy nodded.

"I know; she woke me up first."

The baby stuck a blackened hand into her mouth and Connor lightly swatted it away. "That's disgustin'," he said, "Christ only knows where yer fuckin' hands have been."

Murphy chuckled at his twin, raising an eyebrow, "Ye sound like Ma."

"Fuck off," Connor scoffed, frowning, "I'm serious here, we don't know what kind of shite she was inta last night. She needs ta have her hands and face washed."

"Ick." The _galya_ agreed, holding up her blackened hands and wrinkling her nose.

Swinging his legs over the bed, Connor sat up, running a hand through his hair before shooting Murphy a meaningful look.

"Are ye going to help me or not?" he asked, scooping up the baby and rising to his feet.

Sighing Murphy rolled out of bed, following his twin out of the room. "Yes mother," he muttered, and then dodged his brother's hand, grinning.

It took three tries to get the wriggling baby to sit on the kitchen counter and another two to get anywhere near her face. All they had managed to do thus far was smear the soot around and convert most of the dirt into mud.

Sighing, Connor tossed the rag into the kitchen sink. "This is fuckin' useless, what she needs is a bath."

"Maybe we should wait for her ma ta do that," of all the things that Murphy never, _ever_ wanted to do, giving a baby a bath was probably number one on the list, "she might not be too pleased about strange men givin' her little one a bath."

Connor started to reply, but stopped, batting the baby's hands away from her mouth again.

"Seein' that she came ta us on her own," he said, "she's got ta trust us a little bit. Besides, we can't just fuckin' leave her like this."

Murphy met his twin's gaze, trying to ignore the look Connor was giving him, then gave up, sighing resignedly, "bath it is then."

o()o

"'plash!" the baby announced happily and Murphy and Connor exchanged a helpless, perplexed glance.

Baby bathing was easier said than done.

"How the fuck are we goin' ta do this?" Murphy asked, shooting a cagey glance over to where the _galya_ sat, fully clothed, in the empty bathtub, contentedly playing with an empty beer bottle.

Connor shrugged, "I haven't a fuckin' clue."

"It can't be much different than giving Spig a bath when we were kids right?"

"Spig the dog?" Connor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Murphy nodded, encouraged, "Aye."

"So, ye're suggestin' we take her out back and shoot her with the garden hose then?"

"Bit cold for that innit?"

Connor snorted, shaking his head. "Ye're a fuckin' retard."

"Do ye have any better ideas?" his twin retorted.

Connor didn't, and the more he thought about it, the better the garden hose idea sounded. Shaking himself from the idea, Connor sighed, "Well, first thing's first," he said slowly, "she can't have a bath with her clothes on."

"Right then," Murphy agreed, turning toward the little girl and frowning. "Ye do it."

"Me?" Connor looked skeptically at his twin, "Fuckin' why me?"

"She likes ye better."

"Go on outta that," groaning, Connor picked up the baby and presented her to his brother, amused as much by the girl's delighted squeal as he was by the horrified expression on his twin's face. "Ye hold; I'll strip."

Murphy took the _galya_ gingerly, holding her at an arm's length, looking as though Connor had just handed him a live bomb. "This is fuckin' loopers," he muttered and Connor scoffed, taking a swat at his brother's head.

"Will ye just fuckin' shut it and hold her still?"

Stripping the wriggling baby down to her diaper, Connor took another moment to gently check her for any injuries they might have missed the night before, but the little girl seemed whole and healthy.

Her ma had done a fine job by her.

"Do ye think she can have a bath in her nappy?" he asked frowning at the diaper, reluctant to remove it.

Murphy shrugged, "I guess we'll find out."

Between the two of them, Connor and Murphy managed to get the little girl clean, thoroughly drenching the entire bathroom and themselves in the process. Water puddled on every available surface, dripping down the mirrors, walls and soaking through both brothers' shirt and jeans.

"Ye," Connor said, holding open a moderately dry towel, "were one dirty _galya._"

Wiping beads of water from his face, Murphy reached down to lift the girl from the now filthy bathwater, grunting.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he said hauling her out of the bathtub, "what did ye do ta her? She weighs four-hundred pounds!"

Connor rolled his eyes, ready to chide his twin for being such a mollycoddle when he noticed the diaper, now three times its normal size, slipping off the baby's backside.

"I didn't do shite," he protested, pointing, "the fuckin' nappy soaked up all the fuckin' water!"

Murphy glanced down, eyes wide, and jiggled the little one until the diaper slipped all the way off, landing on the bathroom floor with a wet _splot._

"I guess nappies weren't meant for the bath after all," he said.

Connor took the baby from his twin, wrapping her in the towel and rubbing her briskly, grinning at the lip vibrating 'brrrrmmm's she made as he did.

" Conn?" Murphy nudged the sodden diaper with his toe, eyeing it warily. "She doesn't have anything ta wear and we don't have any more nappies."

"Well, she can have one of our shirts ta wear and . . ." Connor paused, trying to decide what to do about the diaper, "we'll figure something out," he said at last.

Following his twin out of the bathroom, and into the kitchen, Murphy halted briefly in front of the kitchen counter. He grabbed a nearby roll of paper towels from their place by the sink and lobbed them over his shoulder as he meandered into their bedroom.

Connor caught the roll one-handed, grinning, "Fuckin' brilliant."

Laying the baby on the kitchen, he unrolled a fair amount, bunching them up and putting them where they needed to go. Surveying his work, he gave a pleased nod; the hard part was done, now he just needed a way to make them stay put.

In the other room, he could hear his twin swearing, probably trying to find something for the baby to wear.

"Hey, Murph," he called, "Do we have any tape?"

o()o

Maire coughed herself awake, each breath dragging through her throat like broken glass, her chest feeling raw and stripped. Disoriented, she reached out instinctively for her daughter and encountered empty space.

_Oh god . . . _

"Sasha!" the word came out a painful croak, her heart suddenly jackhammering against her ribs.

"Take it easy now," a voice soothed, "she's right here,"

Looking up, Maire saw Connor-from-the-hospital standing in the doorway, Sasha cradled in his arm. Her daughter was engulfed in a black tee shirt that was comically too large, contentedly munching dry cereal.

"Mah!" she beamed, reaching out a crumb-covered hand.

"Baby." The relief sweeping through Maire was almost painful as Connor gently settled Sasha into her arms. Immediately, her fingers flew over her daughter, probing for any injuries from the previous night.

"She had a couple of scrapes and bruises," Connor supplied, "nothin' serious."

Nodding her thanks, Maire continued her inspection. It was a long-honed instinct to check Sasha's diaper, and she was more than a little surprised when instead of the anticipated elastic band, her fingers encountered something else entirely.

"You taped paper towels to my daughter?" she asked, raising her eyebrows uncertainly as she examined the makeshift diaper.

Connor shrugged, "t'was all we had. We're lucky Murph found the medical tape when he did, otherwise we would've had ta duct tape them ta her."

Blinking, Maire found herself suddenly _very_ grateful to whoever Murph was and even more grateful for his discovery of medical tape.

"Thank you," she said softly, running a hand over her daughter's head, "for taking care of her, of us."

Connor nodded, remaining silent and Maire shifted her attention to a point above his head, unsure what to say.

A dark haired man moved into her line of sight, making her jump as he peered over Connor's shoulder. She recognized him as the same man that had answered the door last night.

"Glad ta see ye're awake," he said, offering her a hint of a smile before disappearing from sight.

Connor watched the man from the corner of his eye before glancing skyward and shaking his head, offering Maire an amused smile.

"My brother, Murphy, on some mission, no doubt."

"I'm lookin' for _galya_ food." Came a reply from down the hallway and Connor chuckled.

"Fuckin' eejit."

Still leaning comfortably against the doorframe, he folded his arms across his chest, sobering.

"We bandaged ye up as best we could last night," he said, "but ye'll want ta check and make sure that you're all right. We can take ye ta the hospital if ye need us to."

"No hospitals," she said quickly, shaking her head.

Connor frowned at her, his eyes dark and searching, "Are ye certain?"

_Last chance,_ she thought, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. She could still get to the brightly lit safety of a hospital, still have a doctor check Sasha over and still find security in the professionals that were meant to help her.

But deep down, she knew better. Chances are, _they_ were already there, searching for her, waiting for her to show up so they could finish what they started.

"I'm sure." She whispered, feeling more lost and alone than ever.

Connor inclined his head slightly toward the other end of the room, his face unreadable. "Bathroom's through there then."

"I can't leave my daughter."

"She's spent most o' the morning with us already, I think a little longer won't hurt her."

Right on cue, Sasha began to wiggle restlessly in Maire's lap, fussing against her mamma's protective embrace.

"There's nothing around that can hurt her, right?" Maire asked, raising an eyebrow as she glanced around the room, wrangling the increasingly irate ball of energy that was her daughter.

Bottles littered every available surface, beer and harder alcohols, as well as several take-out containers stuffed in between the glass. There were towels and clothing piled together with stacks of newspapers and the floor looked as though it hadn't seen a vacuum sweeper in . . . well, ever.

_Bachelor pad, _she thought with a sigh.

Connor shook his head, his eyes flicking from point to point around the space. "There isn't. We moved it all earlier."

Nodding, she reluctantly let the baby slide off the couch and Sasha immediately wandered to the far end of the room, picking up something from the floor and popping it into her mouth.

Maire was halfway off the couch before she realized what she was doing. The sudden agony flaring across her back and down her leg made her knees buckle, sitting her back down hard on the sofa.

Shooting her a concerned look, Connor closed the distance between himself and Sasha with a couple long strides, picking the baby up and hooking a finger in her mouth.

"Out with it," He said.

Sasha fussed, twisting to get away from him, but he held her easily, "listen ta me now," he said firmly and Sasha stopped squirming, staring up at him. "Spit. It. Out."

In a flash of memory, Maire saw him sitting next to Martin, watching avidly as her son created a masterpiece from glitter and Crayolas.

She had only spoken to him once, this man who had befriended her son, but she had habitually watched him through the glass of the pediatric ward, unnoticed, and guiltily wondering how much better things would have been for her family if Greg had been a little more like Connor.

Now, watching him interact with her daughter the thought resurfaced. Almost as quickly, she pushed the notion away. She couldn't get him involved, couldn't risk his life too. It was just too dangerous.

Sasha spat the object out into Connor's open hand and Maire had to give him credit for not even flinching at the amazing amount of baby drool that came along with the mystery thing.

He glanced briefly down at the thing in his hand before setting it unceremoniously on top of the television, wiping his palm on his jeans. "T'was only an M&M." he said, shrugging.

"Ick?" Sasha inquired, staring up at Connor with wide eyes.

He nodded at her before setting her down. "Go find Murphy," he said with a grin, "he'll be glad ta see ye."

The baby toddled out of the room, babbling around the finger in her mouth, and Maire resisted the urge to get up and follow her every step. Lord only knew what else she'd find and try to eat from the floor.

"Ye should get cleaned up," Connor said quietly, extending a hand to her. We'll try ta find something that ye can change into."

"I'd appreciate that," she said softly, holding the robe together and taking the offered hand. She winced as he pulled her to her feet and Connor frowned at her, eyes sweeping over her from head to toe.

"Where are ye hurt?" he asked.

"My back, I think," she said, clumsily gesturing toward where the pain was the worst.

"Turn around and let me see."

On impulse, Maire pulled the robe tighter around herself, shaking her head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

He was the same man that she had met in the hospital all those months ago, the man with the kind smile and a way with children that was almost supernatural. The same man who had spent a majority his own recovery time with her dying son in a display of compassion that was unheard of in this day and age. She wanted to trust him, but for all he had done, he was still a stranger.

"I'm not about to hurt ye," he said, speaking her thoughts to her, "I need ye ta trust that, even if ye don't trust me."

Closing her eyes, Maire took in a deep breath and turned around, flinching as she felt his hand tug gently on the collar of her robe. _Leap of faith_, she thought with another wince.

Clutching the ruined fabric to her front, she allowed Connor to slide the robe from her shoulders. His hands ghosted over her skin, and although his touch was warm and gentle, she cringed away from it, resisting the urge to bolt.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the fuck happened ta ye?" he murmured, Ye're fuckin' black and blue from shoulder ta arse."

"My house was on fire," she choked, bringing hand to her mouth, "I had to jump out of the window otherwise we . . ."

_Oh God . . . Oh my dear God. _

The night came back to Maire in a rush of blazing, searing, sensation, flooding her veins with adrenaline, making her stomach clench and her hands turn to ice. She had been so close to dying, so close to . . .

"Hey," Connor said, moving to stand in front of her, placing an awkward hand on each of her shoulders. "Don't. Whatever's happened, it's over, now, ye're safe."

Maire shook her head, swiping at the few scant tears that were trying to escape. He couldn't have been more wrong. Once they found out that she hadn't died in that fire, it would only be the beginning. She was homeless, helpless, _alone, _and no place would ever be safe.

Connor pressed a hand against the small of her back, jerking it away again as she flinched. He swore softly, shaking his head. "Habit," he said ruefully, "I didn't even fuckin' think about it."

Maire barely heard him, though, as the true meaning of what had happened struck, shaking her to the core.

_No place would ever be safe._

Connor frowned at her, concern in his eyes, "C'mon, now," he encouraged, "Murphy'll keep an eye on yer _galya _and ye'll feel better once ye're cleaned up and changed."

o()o


	13. Chapter 13

o()o

_**Author's Note:** A huge thanks to Archerlove who nursed me though this entire chapter and the next. I can't believe how bad this writer's block is, man oh man. . ._

o(13)o

The cool water felt like heaven.

An unsteady chuckle slipped out at the thought. That was how this entire thing had started, wasn't it?

Maire washed the soot from her skin and hair, wincing as she brushed the occasional cut or burn.

She was desperately trying to coax some sort of feasible plan from her devastation-numbed mind, without much success. She needed to figure out where to go from here, organizations that could help her with belongings, a place where she could hide, but every time she tried to put together a course of action, she ended up in the same place.

_It's all gone. _

She had been so proud of herself when they had hauled that man, something Ford, to jail because of her picture. She had watched the broadcast on the diner's ancient television, joy bubbling up inside of her as the newscaster had held up the newspaper, displaying the pictures she had sent them on the front page, heralding the 'anonymous good Samaritan' who had helped bring this man to justice.

Pouring coffee and serving plates of greasy food, Maire had never felt more like a hero in her entire life.

And for what?

Her home was gone, all of her possessions and precious memories, every picture of her son and every masterpiece he had ever created, all of her identification, records, certificates, everything. She couldn't even withdraw money from the bank now, not that the $3.68 that was currently in there would do any good anyway. Her entire life had been reduced to nothing but ashes in a matter of minutes. She had been reckless and it had nearly cost Maire her life. Worse, it had nearly cost her Sasha.

Her shoulders hitched and she bowed her head against the tile of the shower, swallowing against the grief that was expanding in her throat.

As quickly as it was there, however, the feeling was gone, and she was numb again, her emotions muted as though they had been swaddled in cotton and shoved back inside of her head. Pressing the palm of her hand against her forehead, water running over her face, she tried to focus on something other than the wreckage of the previous night, only to have her thoughts turn blurry again.

Giving up, she stepped out of the shower, finding a towel and a rumpled bundle of clothing setting on the toilet seat.

"Hope those are for me," she murmured to herself, reaching for the towel.

Clean and clad in fresh clothes, she began to feel marginally better. Stepping out of the bathroom in a rush of steam, Maire turned and promptly ran into a gray t-shirt.

An apology on her lips, she looked up to see Connor's brother gazing down at her, a cigarette behind his ear.

"Feelin' better?" he asked.

Maire nodded slowly, biting her lip. "I think so. Thank you for the clothes," she said, gesturing to the sweatpants and t-shirt she was wearing. They were several sizes too large, making her feel like a child playing dress-up, but they were warm and clean and that was all that mattered.

He mirrored her nod, bringing his thumb to his mouth, "S'alright, they're Connor's anyway."

For the first time, she noticed the gash along the side of his head and the ugly black eyes he was sporting.

"What happened?" she asked, curiosity winning out over manners, inclining her head toward his injuries.

The grin that split his face surprised her and the wall that had been behind his eyes dissolved into good-humor.

"A bit o' girl trouble," he said, chuckling.

"Girl trouble?" she asked incredulously, wondering what kind of a girl would leave damage like that behind. _Must have been quite a woman. _

"Aye," his gaze shifted over her shoulder, his eyes widening, "Conn?"

The concern in his voice made Maire turn and she saw Connor moving laboriously down the hall, limping awkwardly, holding onto the wall for support.

"I think," Connor said, still lurching toward them, "I could use a hand here."

For a fleeting, horrible moment, Maire was certain that the men that were after her had somehow found them. They had tracked her down and now Connor was paying the price for her disregard.

Then, a delighted squeal from the vicinity of Connor's feet made Maire smile, her apprehension melting away, she knew this game very well.

Looking down, her smile turned into a relieved laugh as her suspicions were confirmed. Wrapped firmly around Connor's leg, was her daughter, giggling with each step, grinning up at the man she was clinging to.

"Come here, baby." She said, reaching out, "let him be."

"Buh!" Sasha protested resentfully, not moving. Connor gave his foot a slight wiggle, educing more gleeful laughter from the baby.

Resting a hand on her hip, Maire raised a challenging eyebrow at her daughter. "Sasha . . ."

Sasha's giggles died away, her eyes becoming large, lower lip poking out. "No!"

Maire rolled her eyes, sighing and wondering if the terrible twos were setting in ahead of schedule, "One . . . " she warned, "two . . ."

Whining, Sasha let go of Connor's leg, toddling over to her mamma, tears shining in her gray eyes and Maire knew that there was a tired-baby tantrum on the way.

"Good job," she said, picking up her daughter and pressing a few sloppy, noisy kisses against Sasha's neck, pleased at the giggles it elicited. A few inelegant munchy noises later, Sasha was all smiles again, clinging happily to Maire's shoulders.

Glancing up she was met with matching, amused, grins, and offered both brothers a self-conscious shrug.

_Nothing like baby-munchy noises to really get a guy's attention_, she thought blood rushing to her cheeks.

Murphy was the first to laugh, nudging his brother with his elbow as he whooped, and Connor wasn't far behind. Through her embarrassment, Maire couldn't help but notice what a nice smile Connor had and the way the laughter crinkled his eyes.

He looked up at her through his lashes, still grinning and the room suddenly became too warm in a way that had nothing to do with being embarrassed.

"I think," she said, pressing a kiss against her daughter's head, avoiding both sets of mirthful blue eyes, "that it's time for her to have a nap."

o()o

Connor took a long pull off of his cigarette leaning against the metal railing of the fire escape. The previous night's rain had tapered off, but the smell of ozone was still strong in the air, clean and fresh, reminding him of home.

The window slid open and Murphy came to stand next to him, barefoot and curiously cigaretteless, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

They exchanged a silent greeting and Connor sighed, turning to look into their flat where Martin's ma, _Maire_, he corrected himself was curled up on their sofa, trying to coax her daughter to sleep for an afternoon nap.

"I can't believe she jumped out the fuckin' window," he said, breaking the silence.

Murphy blinked, frowning, "Out the window?"

"Aye, that's what she told me. She said that her house was on fire and she jumped out o' the fuckin' window ta get out. That's why she's all bruised up."

"Jesus Christ."

Connor furrowed a brow at his twin. "Ye should see her back, man, it's a fuckin' miracle that she's still standin'." Connor leaned his head back, watching the first snatches of sunlight as they peered through the gray sky. "What the fuck was she thinking?"

"Probably the same as ye when ye decided to leap off o' the roof of our apartment building," Murphy said quietly.

Reflexively, Connor lifted his hands, examining them. It was difficult to see the scars unless you were really looking for them; faint rings a shade lighter than his skin that circled his both wrists. Faded as they were though, they were still there and, the memory was still bright and clear enough to wake Connor in the middle of the night, soaked in cold sweat, tangled in his bedclothes. The memory of the day he had almost lost his twin.

"Connor?" Murphy came to stand next to him, resting his hands on the ancient metal railing, and Connor's eyes flicked to the spider-webbing of scars that marred his brother's left hand from thumb to wrist, the marks deeper and more noticeable than his own, a long-familiar twinge of guilt squeezing his chest.

The pale scars denoted the place where fragile bones had once crunched under Connor's heavy work boot; another painful reminder of another painful day. Murphy'd had to wear a cast for three months because of that day.

"Where were ye just now?" Murphy's voice was hushed, concerned

Connor took another pull from his cigarette and shook his head, avoiding his twin's eyes and the curious disquiet he knew he would find there, "Just thinkin' about the past."

"Best ta let that alone," Murphy said quietly, reaching to pluck the smoke from between Connor's fingers, "there's no place for it here."

Nodding, Connor turned away, wondering again when he had become the younger twin. He wished that he could take his brother's advice, but he couldn't let the last two years go any more than he could change them.

The window slid open behind them and Maire stepped out, hiking up the oversized sweatpants. Shooting a cagey glance between the two of them, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked, softly.

"Ye aren't," Connor said, tapping out a cigarette from the slightly squashed package and offering it toward her.

She shook her head, giving him a brief smile, "thank you, though."

"Ye don't smoke?" asked Murphy, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I quit when I was pregnant with Martin," she said, "and never really picked it up again."

Nodding, Connor took the rejected cigarette for himself, knowing that he'd never get his own back from Murphy.

Flicking his lighter to life and cupping his hand against the cool breeze, Connor inclined his head toward the window. "She sleepin' now?"

Maire nodded, following his gaze, her tense expression melting into something softer, "Yeah."

"Once she wakes up, we'll take ye ta go and get supplies."

"That's not necessary," she began, and Connor rolled his eyes, half certain he knew that answer was coming even before she had spoken.

"The fuck it isn't," he scoffed, "you have a fuckin' robe and a pair of sweats to your name, sounds like a little help is pretty fuckin' necessary ta me."

"That's actually what I wanted to ask you about," she said, pressing her lips together, "I was hoping you'd let me have all the bottles and cans lying around your apartment."

Connor blinked, confused, "what the fuck are all those cans goin' ta get ye?" he asked, frowning at her.

"I can return them and collect the deposit," Maire shrugged, nodding toward the Redemption Center across the street, and idly Connor wondered when they had put it up. "It works both ways," she continued, "because you get a cleaner place and I get to keep the money."

"Ye're fuckin' serious?" he said, and both brothers exchanged a brief, disbelieving gaze.

"It should be enough money for diapers, a couple bags of clothes at the Salvation Army, and hopefully admission into a shelter until I can find a new place to live."

"Go on outta that," Murphy exclaimed, horrified.

Maire offered him an amused smile. "Never underestimate the power of quarter-per-sack day at the Salvation Army."

"Not that," Connor said, grimacing, "we're talkin' about the shelter. That's no place for the likes of ye or yer daughter. Those places are dangerous."

Their first few nights in America had been spent in a Boston shelter, row upon row of dirty cot inhabited by dirty people. The days hadn't been so bad, the church ladies that volunteered there were nice and the food they offered had been almost as good as their Ma's. But at night when all the god-fearing ladies went home Connor and Murphy had gotten a good look at the underside of the city they now called home.

Some of the inhabitants simply huddled in the corner; some cried, some screamed and yelled at phantoms only they could see. Sometimes fights would break out, forcing each brother to take hold of a reeking, multilayered thing that might or might not have been human and pull it away from the other, just so they could get a little rest for the next day.

Once, Murphy had almost stepped on a filthy syringe lying right out in the open on the floor, and one time Connor actually _had_ stepped on a bent spoon, the bowl charred and caked with thick residue. The YMCA had seemed like a palace compared to those first few days in the cramped, fetid, confines of the shelter.

There was no way in hell this woman and her child were going to stay in one of those shiteholes.

"Ye don't have any family? Friends?" Connor asked hopefully.

Maire pressed her lips together looking away, but not before he got a good look at the sudden hurt that flooded her face.

"No family, no friends," she said quietly, fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt, "it's just Sasha and me."

Over Maire's head, Connor met his twin's gaze, seeing his own thoughts mirrored in Murphy's eyes. The question was asked and answered without words; shelters were dangerous places, last resorts only, and she wasn't out of options.

Not yet.

"All right," Murphy said slowly, "here's the deal, we'll take ye shopping when the baby wakes up . . ."

Maire shook her head cutting him off, "I don't need charity," she said firmly, her face hardening.

"This isn't charity," Connor protested, working hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Were all women so fucking stubborn? "t'is only help, plain and simple."

"Ye can't stay at one o' those shelters," Murphy added, "they're too fuckin' dangerous."

"We'll see if we can't help you find someplace ta live and ye can stay with us until then." Connor finished, encouraged by his twin's supportive nod.

Maire opened her mouth to reply, but Connor didn't stop, already knowing what was coming, "and so help me, Christ, if ye say that it isn't necessary, we'll toss ye straight off the fuckin' fire escape."

A sharp elbow between his ribs made him realize that he had just threatened to toss a woman who had leapt out of a window the night before, off the fire escape, and he winced as much from his twin's blow as from the thoughtlessness of his words.

Maire laughed softly, but the sound was forced, and Connor felt another twinge of regret. He wanted to say something to smooth over his words, but he knew better. Anything he said now would only make him look like a bigger arsehole.

And Heaven knew he didn't need any help with that.

"Okay," she said, blinking hard, "you win."

"I think what ye meant ta say there was 'Thank you'." Murphy said, his eyes sparkling, and this time Maire's chuckle was genuine.

"That's exactly what I meant," she said, meeting Connor's gaze, the emotion there startling him, "thank you."

o()o


	14. Chapter 14

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, I've never had so much trouble! It isn't my best and I'm not entirely happy with it, but it was just one of those things were if I didn't write something, nothing would ever get written. So, sorry for the crap chapter guys, better ones are in the wings.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **R.O. is police slang for Responding Officers, or the officers that arrive on the scene of a crime first. _

o(14)o

The place hadn't changed at all in the last two years.

Smecker was certain that time had stopped at the smudged doors of the South Boston Police Department, turned around, and walked away. The floors were still sticky and scuffed, the desks were still scratched and dented, housing officers that were hunched over mountains of paperwork and the entire place still smelled vaguely like sweat and smoke and cheap cologne.

Taking a drink of his latte, the agent shook his head, sighing, he was as out of place here as Nigel would be at the monster truck races, but the station nevertheless filled him with a bizarre sense of nostalgia. His life had changed here in momentous and irrevocable ways.

He could remember every detail of his first day here as clearly as if it had just come to pass. From the closed, distrustful, expressions on the faces of South Boston's finest as he had taken over that initial crime scene, to the two dead Russian mobsters, and the bloodstained path they had headed. A turbulent, soul-shaking path that had eventually led him to two Irish brothers who had unwittingly sent his world into a tailspin.

Hell, were _still_ sending his world into a tailspin.

"Agent Smecker!"

"Dolly," he said, unable to help the smile that escaped as he took the other man's hand, it looked like the department wasn't the only thing that hadn't changed. "Good to see you."

"Likewise," Dolly said pumping his hand and grinning. "Wish it were under better circumstances though, this whole thing is a mess."

Smecker nodded, reclaiming his hand, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that the Saints had picked up their work again, apparently they had never stopped to begin with. He had to wonder, though, what had prompted them to return to a place where they were so well known, especially after the fiasco with that girl a few towns over last fall.

Involuntarily, his hand went to touch the scar on his shoulder, his own personal reminder of the price that justice all too often pays just for the right to exist.

Realizing that Dolly was staring at him curiously, Smecker shook himself from his thoughts and glanced around the department. He noticed that a few familiar faces were missing; particularly the other two-thirds of what he had privately dubbed _the three stooges. _

He would jump naked into a pool of razor blades before he _ever_ admitted it, but Smecker had been looking forward to seeing them again.

"Where is everybody?" he asked.

Dolly blinked at him for a moment, and then gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's just me now, Agent."

"Just you?"

The detective nodded, " Greenly went and got himself married. He transferred out of the department just after the wedding."

"Married, really?" Smecker was taken aback, marveling at the concept of a woman who had the grit to marry Greenly.

_Maybe not so much grit as mental instability, _he thought with an inward smirk.

"Yeah, she's a real nice girl,"Dolly continued," we got a card and a picture a while back, I guess expecting a little one next fall."

"And Duffy?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Smecker wished he hadn't spoken them. Dolly's generous face managed to both harden and sadden as he looked away, pressing his lips together.

"Killed in the line of duty," the detective said brusquely and Smecker could tell that the wound was still raw.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, "he was a damn good cop."

"Yeah," Dolly said, swallowing, staring at his shoes, "he was."

An awkward moment of silence fell as both men remembered their comrades and both were suddenly, painfully, reminded that the only constant in life was change.

Finally, Dolly shook himself, running a hand through his hair, breaking the somber mood as he spoke.

"Fucking Saints of South Boston," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that betrayed his beleaguered tone. "Those bastards have balls of solid steel to come back here after all this time."

_If only you knew, _Smecker thought smiling to himself, _If only you knew. _

o()o

Dolly had been fine until he saw the pacifier at his feet.

Taking Agent Smecker on a tour of the crime scenes had gone well enough in the beginning. The first scene was just as he had left it, the area neatly taped and marked, all the evidence labeled, everything where it should have been. Perfect in every way.

The second crime scene looked like Armageddon come to life.

Uniformed officers milled around taking pictures and notes, and the volunteer firefighters were carefully plodding through the remains of the apartment, jabbing at something occasionally with their shovels, checking to make sure there were no leftover embers that could ignite and resume the devastation they had started.

A few of the apartments were a little blackened, showing slight damage nothing compared to the apartment that had been nestled in their midst.

Overnight, Mrs. Maire Kensett's apartment had been transformed into little more than charred debris, nothing recognizable beneath the soot and ash.

"Jesus," he muttered, falling back a step from the ruin before him, his stomach recoiling with an acidic lurch.

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, _he thought, running a trembling hand through his hair, _maybe they weren't home,_ maybe_ they got out . . . _

Glancing down at the cracked asphalt, he saw a tiny pink pacifier next to his shoes, partially melted, and covered in ash. The image cut through his forced optimism, sheering away the worthless hope he'd been trying to build, and carving itself directly into his brain. Dolly knew that he would be seeing that pacifier in his nightmares for a long time.

The thought was accompanied by a rise of bile in the back of his throat. This was his fault, he should have done something more, checked on her, sent one more patrol car, something.

_Anything. _

A hand landed on his shoulder making him jump, and he turned and looked into eyes that managed to be sharp and compassionate at the same time.

"You okay, Detective?" Smecker said, the normal mocking tone that Dolly had come to associate with the agent strangely absent.

Dolly shrugged off the agent's hand, "No," he said, hearing the quaver in his voice but unable to stop it, "but I have a job to do and I'd best get started."

Losing himself in the crime scene was easier than he thought it would be. Although practically everything had been destroyed by the fire, leaving behind little evidence that he could go on, Dolly already had a good idea of what had happened.

He'd seen on the morning news that Idol Ford had been released from jail the previous night, and it was simple enough to figure out what had come about from there.

Unbidden, the image of the ruined pacifier resurfaced, making him shudder.

"Detective!" Smecker's voice rang out clearly from the side of the complex and Dolly felt his hands go cold as his mind conjured gruesome images of what the agent had found.

Smecker was squatted down, examining something on the ground and, seeing Dolly, gestured him over, removing a small pair of headphones from his ears.

Dolly caught a snatch of some ritzy opera and despite the grim situation, a smile tugged on his lips; he just couldn't understand how Smecker figured things out while listening to that crap.

Lynard Skynard, though, now there was a good crime-solving band.

"What'd you find?" he asked, coming to stand next to the other man.

"Look at this," the agent said, taking a piece of the broken glass between his fingers and rubbing it gently before replacing it on the ground amongst the other shards that were scattered across the concrete like deadly confetti.

"Blood," he said, extending reddened, gloved, fingertips toward Dolly. "The R.O's told me that the firefighters didn't find anyone in the house, dead or alive."

Dolly nodded numbly afraid to hope.

"Now, according to CSI, most of the glass from the windows was found inside the house, indicating that they were broken from the outside. But these pieces," Smecker picked up another shard, presenting it to Dolly, "means that the window above us was broken from the inside."

"She jumped out." Dolly murmured, piecing the information together. She jumped out of the fuckin' window."

Smecker nodded, "That's my guess. But the question here is, if she went to such extremes to escape the fire, why didn't she call for help or wait for the ambulance to arrive? What the hell happened here, and where is she now?"

Returning his attention to the piece of shattered glass in his hand, Dolly remained silent, caught between his training to stay distanced from the scene and breaking down and giving into the relief that was pressing behind his eyes, a feeling so intense that it was almost painful.

"I guess," he said finally, his voice sounding taut and alien in his ears, "that we'd better start looking for answers."

o()o

"So," Murphy said, stopping the shopping cart to reach for a box of Pop-Tarts. He examined them carefully before giving a satisfied grunt and tossing them into the basket.

Maire arched an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to finish his thought, but the darker MacManus was absorbed in the seemingly endless selection of toaster pastries.

"So, what?" she prompted.

Murphy looked up at her and then glanced cagily at Sasha, who was sitting in the basket, playing with the newly added Pop-Tart box, "What exactly do ye feed her?" he asked at last.

Looking down at her daughter, Maire bit her lips on a smile, "Oh, you know," she said airily, "some greens and roughage, bugs, small rodents once in a while."

Murphy eyes grew wider with each word and Maire struggled not to laugh at his shocked expression.

"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" she said, finally giving in and holding up a placating hand, "she likes hot dogs and Cheerio's like every other kid on earth."

"Fuckin' smartass," he muttered turning to wander down a different aisle, sending Maire into fresh gales of laughter.

It had taken both brothers over an hour to convince her that she would be safe leaving the sanctity of their apartment. Every time Maire would get to the door, she would lose her nerve, unwilling to expose herself to the outside world and the possibility that _they _might find her.

"We'll both be with ye," Connor had cajoled, "and we're pretty safe guys ta be around."

"Nobody safer," Murphy had interjected from across the room, from where he was kneeling, holding a handful of M & M's out to Sasha as though she were a wild animal.

Nodding shakily, she had tried again, yet again losing her nerve and feigning some mysterious baby chore to stall for time.

"What are ye so afraid of?" Connor had asked after the fourth failed attempt to get her out of the door. "What is it that ye aren't telling us?"

For a moment, Maire had almost told him everything. She wasn't a person for lies, and keeping the ordeal that she had survived a secret was weighing on her in ways she never could have imagined. She had almost given in to the need to talk, given in to the concern on Connor's face, but then the stark reality of the situation had resurfaced slapping her in the face like a dash of frigid water.

_You're in a very dangerous situation_, _get him involved, and you'll get him killed. _

The thought sent a shudder through her and she swallowed, her eyes sliding away from his. These men were innocent, and getting them mixed up in her state of affairs would be like putting a gun to their head and pulling the trigger herself. She couldn't let that happen, not after how they had helped her.

Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Maire had shaken her head, refusing his request as well as her own need to talk. "It's nothing."

There was a beat of silence between them and Connor's previously imploring blue eyes had narrowed slightly.

_He knows I'm lying._ _And_ _he knows I know. _

But Connor hadn't called her on her untruth; instead, he had reached out, taking her hand in his, sending an unexpected shiver down her spine.

"I promise," he said, lowering his voice, "that we won't let anything hurt ye, or yer daughter. Trust that, even if ye don't trust us."

Finally, reluctantly, she had conceded, and was halfway through paying for her purchases at the Salvation Army before her hands had stopped shaking.

Connor had kept his promise, however, and Maire had been pleasantly surprised at how the relaxed banter both brothers kept up had put her at ease. Peppered with affable insults and good-natured teasing, their conversations ranged from arguing over the latest action movie, to expressing their mutual aggravation over the tabloids smearing some blurry picture across their front pages and proclaiming something about "Saviors of the City".

"Fuckin' nosy bastards," they had both agreed, shaking their heads in disgust, the synchronicity of their actions making Maire smile.

Every word they spoke demonstrated the devoted bond they shared, and some of the looks they shot one another when they thought she wasn't paying attention made her wonder if they didn't share thoughts as well.

Their fondness for one another was almost a tangible thing, bright and beautiful, flowing from one to the other and back again. Every so often one of them would reach out to her and Maire was certain that she could feel the affection thrumming through their skin. Unexpectedly, she found herself longing for a whisper of that love, even for the barest of moments, if nothing else, just to know what it felt like to have someone care _that much_ about her.

Now, Maire paused in the middle of the frozen foods, glancing around and finding herself unaccompanied, both brothers having left her for other aisles of the supermarket.

_Alone. _

_Exposed. _

_Helpless. _

_Oh God . . . _

The uneasiness Maire had been harboring all day coagulated into terror, thick and choking and all of a sudden she was suffocating in the open space around her, unable to catch her breath.

Her hands were slick with sweat and thousands of invisible needles prickled along her arms and legs in throbbing waves but Maire barely noticed the sensation, swallowed by panic as her lungs seemed to close in on themselves, making the simple act of drawing a breath a suddenly impossible task.

_She was going to die. _

Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped the handle of the shopping cart, fighting to stay standing as her chest constricted painfully. She sucked in frenzied bursts of air, but none of the oxygen seemed to be reaching her brain.

They were going to find her and kill her. They would walk around the corner any minute, put a gun to her head and pull the trigger , and then they would turn to her defenseless daughter and do the same.

_Oh God . . . _

Maire's stomach lurched as grisly images flashed behind her eyes, like flipping through pages of some macabre picture book. Face missing and replaced with a horrific gaping hole, eyes turned into oozing jelly, blood splattering across every surface as the bullet turned her brain into mush. And then they would turn to Sasha . . .

Doubling over, Maire choked on another frantic, airless breath, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs and pounding in her temples.

_Alone. _

_Exposed. _

_Helpless. _

_She was going to die. _

o()o

Connor returned to the shopping cart with a case of beer in one hand and a package of nappies in the other.

"I thought I'd do a bit o' shoppin' for Murph and me since we're here and all . . ." he said, trailing off, frowning as he saw Maire, hunched over the cart, her hair hanging in her face.

"Maire?"

Her breathing was erratic and frenzied, rapid-fire inhalations and exhalations ripping through her. She was impossibly pale; her eyes dark and glassy as she stared through him knuckles curving white around the handle of the cart.

Dumping the items in his arms into the basked, he glanced around for his twin, an action built on almost three decades of habit. He spotted Murphy across the aisle, already heading toward them, concern in his eyes.

"What the fuck?" said Murphy, dumping his own armload of groceries into the cart and reaching out toward Maire, his brow furrowing as she cringed away from him

"Watch the _galya_," Connor ordered, knowing his brother would obey, "I'm goin' ta get her outside."

His twin nodded, stepping up to the cart. Connor pressed a gentle hand against the small of Maire's back, carefully using the other to pry her fingers from the cart handle.

"Let go of it," he coaxed, if ye need somethin' ta hang on ta, hang on ta me instead."

Finally releasing the handle, Maire transferred her grip to his arm, her hands cold and colorless, her nails digging into his flesh hard enough to draw blood.

"It's all right," he soothed as he guided her out of the store away from the other shoppers, "Take a breath with me now."

"Can't breathe," she gasped out, her voice rising on each word. "I can't breathe."

"If ye can talk, ye can breathe." He admonished, his voice low and firm, trying to keep the uneasiness out of his tone.

Maire shook her head, her chest heaving and Connor slid an arm around her shoulders, pressing their bodies together, shielding her from the world around them.

"Listen ta me, now, and I'll breathe with you, deep and slow." He murmured into her ear, running his hand over her back in long strokes, "In," he drew in a breath and after a moment, she followed suit, "Out. In. Out. Don't stop, ye're doin' fine. In. Out."

He kept up a steady repetition, breathing with her, until, gradually, Maire's head drooped against his shoulder, and the painful grip on his arm loosened. Connor glanced down, frowning at the bloodied half-moons marring the length of his tattoo. What the fuck had just happened?

Maire shivered against him sucking in another unsteady breath before pulling out of his arms, fisting a hand in her now tangled hair, making a quiet, pained, sound in the back of her throat.

"Take it easy," he said softly, reaching out to her, "keep breathin' for me, slow and deep."

"Oh, god," she choked out and whipped around toward the store, her expression stricken, "Oh my god, Sasha."

"Murphy's with her, she's fine, take another breath for me, now."

"What the fuck was that all about?" The rattle of shopping-cart wheels accompanied a familiar voice and, as though he had been summoned by Connor's words, Murphy appeared around the corner, pushing a cart full of groceries.

"Mah?" Sasha inquired from the basket, her eyes wide, and Maire was by the cart in an instant, smoothing a trembling hand over the unruly blond of her daughter's hair.

"Connor, what the fuck?" Murphy's voice was quiet, as he came to stand next to his brother, placing a hand on Connor's shoulder.

"I don't know," Connor admitted, shrugging, "I came ta the fuckin' cart and she was freakin' out, said she couldn't breathe."

"Is she all right, now?"

"I think so," turning, Connor glanced over to where Maire stood by the cart, watching them, and her expression startled him. Gray eyes wide and wounded, she had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, gently stroking her daughter's fingers with her own.

Having Murphy, loneliness was something Connor knew very little about, but the naked longing across Maire's face made his chest tighten uncomfortably. Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he gave her a reassuring squeeze, feeling her sigh against him.

Looking up he exchanged a long glance with Murphy over her head.

"Let's get out o' here."

o()o


	15. Chapter 15

o()o

_**Author's Note:** A big shout-out to archerlove for her help with this chapter. If you haven't yet, go read her fic Sins of the Past, trust me guys, it's starting out strong and is only going to get better from there.  
**Nifty Fact of the Day:** Today's fact is _tiomnaithe do _(dedicated to) Kizume A.W., thanks for keeping me _ar na barraicíní (_on my toes)!_

o(15)o

"Well, it's . . . cozy . . . "

Murphy quirked a brow, exchanging a fleeting glance with his brother. "I think cozy's manners for shitehole. What do ye think Conn?"

"I think ye might be right." Connor said, his eyes sparkling.

Biting her lip, Maire looked around the apartment again, hoping against hope that the second time would be better.

It wasn't.

One floor up, it was almost an exact copy of Connor and Murphy's place, the only difference being that Maire's mattress was a little nicer, and her kitchen a little more worn.

Listless paint was peeling from the dingy brick walls. A single, naked bulb illuminated a bleak looking kitchen. Beyond the kitchen laid a bathroom that was more mildew than tile, and a small bedroom and living room that were melded into one miserable space.

A wave of longing swept through Maire as she surveyed the dismal residence. Forlornly, she remembered the well-loved hominess of her old apartment. She'd give just about anything right now for her refrigerator, covered in pictures and photographs, and the rocking chair where she'd lulled her children to sleep countless nights. She wanted her comfortably cluttered living room and her bathroom, decorated with cheerful sunflowers.

This place was stark, foreboding, and lifeless, but it was free and for now, it would have to be home.

Moving to stand beside her, Connor pressed a warm hand against the small of her back.

"We'll help ye make it better," he said softly, "maybe a lamp or something."

"Besides, ye haven't seen the best part of all." Murphy said with a grin, walking out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

"Did I just miss something?" Maire asked, adjusting Sasha a little more comfortably in her arms. The sleeping baby sighed, and wriggled slightly before settling back to her catnap.

"I think we both did." Connor shook his head, his expression sobering, "Maire, I want ta talk ta ye about what happened at the store last week."

His words caught her off guard and she avoided his eyes, looking down at the sleeping baby in her lap instead. "There's nothing to talk about," she said, getting to her feet and easing Sasha onto the battered mattress across the room.

"Has it happened since?"

Maire nodded, feeling her pulse pick up a little even at the thought, the utter loss of control, and the terror that had consumed her. She'd had two other spells, waking in the middle of the night unable to breathe, choking on her terror, and she was dreading the time when it would happen again.

If there was one thing that she had always prided herself on, it was her inner strength. Her life had been far from easy, becoming pregnant at seventeen and dropping out of high school, being disowned by her family, her husband leaving her to fend for herself and two small children alone, her son being diagnosed with terminal cancer, but she had borne each and every trial with the same upbeat attitude and hopeful determination. Nothing could get the best of Maire Kensett.

Until now; and Maire hated the idea that, after everything she had endured, this turn of events was reducing her to a gasping, shaking wreck.

Connor eyes widened slightly at her admission. "When?" he asked and the rest of his question, while unspoken, was clear, _And__ why didn't I know?_

"Do we really have to talk about this?" she asked, catching her lower lip between her teeth.

"Knock three times, on the ceiling if you want me," a disembodied voice filled the apartment, echoing around them, and Maire jumped, bringing a startled hand to her mouth.

"Guess we don't," Connor muttered, looking away.

"Twice on the pipes if the answer is no," the voice continued and Maire realized that it was Murphy's voice coming up from the heating duct, singing the old song in an unexpectedly pleasant, if slightly off key, tenor. She smiled looking around as his voice echoed off of the barren walls.

Shaking his head, Connor walked over to the vent, giving it two hard stomps with his boot. "Get up here, ye fuckin' eejit!" he called.

There was the muted sound of sputtering and coughing and Murphy's voice came back through the vent, incensed. "Ye fuck, ye just knocked all that shite right inta my fuckin' face!"

Still standing on the grating, Connor's sober expression split into a wicked grin and he brought his foot down one last time, sending Murphy into a fresh bout of spluttering and swearing.

Venturing a glance at Connor, Maire caught his gaze and watched him watching her, transfixed. There was a flash of emotion in his eyes, and Maire felt the temperature in the room jump, before he turned away as the door swung open and a very dusty, very peeved, Murphy came in.

"Ye're a right bastard is what ye are." said Murphy, batting at his twin.

Connor dodged his brother's hand and returned the blow, thumping Murphy firmly on the back of the head. A cloud of dust accompanied the cuff making Connor laugh.

"Ye fuckin' look like Pigpen," he whooped and this time was too busy laughing to dodge Murphy's hand.

The swipe caught Connor behind the ear and both brothers erupted into motion, grappling and swatting as they called each other names, tossing insults back and forth between gasps of laughter.

Maire watched Connor as he struggled to stay standing while Murphy tried to wrestle them both to the floor. It was a valiant effort, and for a moment, she thought that Connor might just gain the upper hand, but finally, both brothers tumbled to the ground, a swearing heap of limbs.

She couldn't tell where one man ended and the other began. Was that Connor's face in Murphy's armpit, or Murphy's legs pinned under Connor's back, and what language _was_ that? It certainly hadn't been English; it probably hadn't been very respectful, either.

Finally Murphy got the advantage, catching Connor in a headlock and scrubbing his knuckles over the top of his brother's head, crowing his triumph loud enough to make Sasha stir, fussing slightly.

Laughing, Connor pounded him on the back, sending more dust flying into the air.

"All right! All right! Ye fuckin' win, now get off o' me."

Releasing Connor and rolling away, Murphy got to his feet, grinning as he extended a hand toward where his brother was laying on the floor.

"I'm fuckin' starving," he said and Connor gave him a good-natured shove.

"Then go and order a fuckin' pizza or something."

There was a beat of silence and a shared glance between them, and then Murphy's eyebrows shot toward his hairline, the corners of his mouth rising as well.

"_Oh,_" he said, glancing knowingly at Maire, and the blood rushed to Maire's cheeks with startling speed.

"Murph, no . . ." Connor began, exasperated.

Murphy shrugged, ignoring his brother and then winked at Maire, his eyes sparkling. "I guess I'll just be off to order that then, won't I?"

o()o

"So ye really mean ta tell me that ye _liked_ Nightmare on Elm Street?

Maire smiled at him, suddenly self-conscious now that her love of scary movies had been discovered, "Yeah, all of them."

In the apartment below her, she could hear Murphy on the phone, ordering pizza, his voice carrying through the heating ducts and filtering into her apartment.

"There's more than one?" Connor asked incredulously, raising his eyebrows.

"There are seven of them, actually."

"Ye've got ta be fuckin' kidding me, how could a movie that bad have seven fuckin' sequels?"

Maire grinned at him, how could someone _not_ like Freddy Krueger? "I guess there's no accounting for taste."

Connor shorted, shaking his head, "I guess not."

Maire met his gaze and felt an unfamiliar tingle course through her. Suddenly the ache in her shoulders and the miserable state of the new apartment faded away and her world narrowed to nothing but the blue of Connor's eyes. They were like the ocean before a storm, deep, fathomless, and full of secrets waiting to be discovered.

The corners of Connor's mouth turned up and he reached to brush a lock of hair off of Sasha's forehead. His eyes softened and he repeated the gesture, catching a strand of Maire's hair between his fingers and moving it out of her eyes.

Still smiling, his eyes flickered down, and he pressed a gentle kiss against the top of Sasha's head. Looking at her through dark lashes, his smile widened and he bent his head leaning down for a kiss of his own.

_She couldn't. _

Turning her head, she tried to control the emotions that were flooding through her. She wanted this, wanted him, but she couldn't get him involved. She couldn't chance him getting hurt because of her. It was too dangerous.

"Connor, please, I . . . I'm sorry."

There was a flash of hurt in his eyes and then it was replaced something Maire couldn't identify, something more aloof.

He shook his head ruefully, "No, _I'm_ sorry. I'm an arse, I shouldn't have done that."

"No. . . Well, yes . . . that's not what I meant," Maire blurted, making a helpless gesture with her hand, "It's just that . . ."

"Pepperoni or Olives?" Murphy's voice came clearly through the vent, interrupting her stammering and making them both jump.

"It's okay, I understand," he said, offering her a smile that she was certain wasn't supposed to be so sad, "Pepperoni or olives?"

"Extra cheese," she said, and had the pleasure of watching his smile turn into a genuine grin.

"Just cheese?"

Maire nodded, "I'm a pizza purist."

Connor walked over to the heating duct. "Just cheese, Murph," he called.

"Gotta have more than that," Murphy replied, his voice echoing around the apartment.

"Nope," Connor met Maire's eyes and gave her a solemn wink, "ye've been outvoted, and it's just cheese this time."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Aye."

"Ye were supposed ta be on my side, Maire," Murphy accused, but Maire could hear the smile behind the reproachful tone.

"Sorry," she called back, anything but.

"Christ," the word was mumbled, but it carried clearly through the vents making Maire smile. She listened as Murphy went back to talking on the phone and then chanced a look at Connor.

He met her eyes for a moment and then looked away, "S'nice to meet another pizza purist, there aren't many o' us around ye know."

"I know." Maire sat down on the battered chair next to the bed, willing her cheeks to cool before Murphy made is way back up the stairs, "it is."

o()o

"And so the other one says, 'If you think that's bad, my wife came home with a card stuck to her arse that read _- All the members of the Rathdown Fire Brigade will never forget you_'."

Maire choked on a laugh, the swallow of soda she had been taking backing its way dangerously through her sinuses.

Murphy slapped his knee, laughing then turned to thump Maire on the back as she coughed, desperately trying to keep soda from coming out of her nose. It _burned._

"Christ, Conn, that was fuckin' awful!" he said, glancing over to where Connor was doubled over in his chair, whooping.

"That was great," Maire spluttered out eliciting fresh gales of laughter from both brothers.

"Liked that did ye?" Connor asked, and Murphy took it upon himself to answer for her.

"Oh, aye, what girl doesn't like ta almost drown in soda. Ye fuckin' eejit."

Connor took a swipe at his brother, and leaned forward, turning on the tiny television that had come with the apartment; after several minutes of fiddling with the wire antenna, the static reformed itself into the evening news.

_"In related events," the newscaster announced, glancing down at the crisp white sheets of paper she held in her hands. "Noted Boston attorney, Idol Ford is scheduled to appear in court next Tuesday. Ford is charged with first degree murder after an anonymous citizen turned a shocking photograph in to the Boston Herald." _

Maire froze, turning to look in horror at the picture that was plastered across the screen. It was the picture from the disposable camera and next to it, the man they had arrested. He was sleek looking, swarthy and well dressed. Maire could tell that it would take a year at least of her salary at the diner to buy the suit he was wearing.

In front of them a box of half-eaten pizza sat ignored as Connor and Murphy both leaned forward, frowning at the TV.

"That's fuckin' revolting." Murphy said, gesturing toward the television with his beer. "Guilty bastard didn't even spend a full fuckin' day in jail."

Connor took a long draught from his bottle and nodded thoughtfully, "Aye,"

_"Resources say that the chance of indictment is slim however, due to lack of both witnesses and solid evidence. Police are urging anyone that knows anything about this crime to come forward and call the number below." _

Murphy scowled at the perky blond on the news, as though it were her fault they had released the lawyer. "My arse," he grumbled, "like anyone is goin' ta do that."

Maire stared at the screen, transfixed, certain that this feeling was why people stopped to gawk at car accidents. He was going to walk. He had destroyed her life, and he was going to get away without even the most minor of punishments.

Shaking his head, Connor eased a slice of pizza from the box, cursing as half of the cheese slid off the crust, puddling on the cardboard.

"Too bad someone doesn't do something about guys like that." Murphy's words had an odd ring to them, the tone of words that had been carefully chosen and spoken.

Carefully balancing what little of the topping remained on the pizza, Connor looked over at his brother, exchanging a long glance, and Maire was privy to a silent conversation of expressions and intuition. She watched them curiously.

Finally turning his attention back to the slice in his hand, Connor answered his brother's final, unspoken question with a slight nod and a bite of toppingless pizza.

From across the room, a loud cry made them jump, and Maire got to her feet, setting aside her can of soda and going over to where her daughter had been sleeping.

"C'mere baby," she soothed, lifting Sasha from the bed, expertly settling the baby on her hip and swaying slightly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, "you're okay."

"I think that's our cue ta go." Murphy said, looking decidedly less comfortable than he had a moment ago.

"Aye, probably, it's well past midnight." Connor took one last swallow of his beer, "Are ye goin' ta be all right here on yer own?" he asked, turning his attention to Maire.

She nodded, trying to quell her disappointment. With both of them there, her apartment had seemed brighter somehow, fuller and safer. Now watching them get to their feet, she realized that she had a long and lonely night ahead of her, one that she wasn't looking forward to.

"I'll be fine," she said softly, swaying a little more, brushing Sasha's hair away from her face as the baby began to quiet. "_We'll _be fine."

Returning her nod, Connor held her gaze, his eyes imploring and Maire felt the flush rise to her cheeks.

"'Night, Maire." A good-natured slap on the back from Murphy made Connor blink and look away, breaking the moment.

"If you need anything," Connor began, but Maire shook her head, offering him a smile that hopefully looked more convincing than it felt.

"Thanks."

Once they both had left, shutting the door behind them, Maire sank down onto the bed, still gently rocking Sasha. The baby had settled down, sucking sleepily on her thumb, her index finger crooked over her nose. It wouldn't take long before she was fast asleep again.

Maire was another story completely.

The apartment was painfully empty, full of strange shadows and echoes. It made Maire's skin crawl and she found herself wishing that she'd asked Connor and Murphy to stay just a little longer.

Below her, she could hear them as they entered apartment, talking quietly. She couldn't make out the words, but their tone was different than before, lower and more serious, she let the sound wash over her, calming her just as she was calming her daughter, pointedly ignoring both the twinge of guilt she felt at listening in.

_"The search for a missing Boston woman and her daughter continues . . ."_ Maire cut the newscaster off with a grimace, not wanting to be reminded her situation.

Sinking heavily onto the bed with a sigh, she gently laid Sasha down, covering her with a blanket from the Salvation Army.

It was like rubbing salt into a wound, the last thing she wanted was for anyone else to get hurt, especially not the two men who had done so much for her. But she was tired of being alone, and their company was such a welcome change.

They were open and affectionate, and oh, how she wanted a piece of that for herself.

As though thought had given form to deed, Connor's voice broke into her dark thoughts as it came through the heating duct, dispelling some of the desolate atmosphere of her apartment.

"'Night, darlin'," he said and Maire pressed a hand against the metal grating, imagining him below her, his eyes sparkling.

"Good night," she whispered back, smiling wanly, "sleep well."

o()o


	16. Chapter 16

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to Kizume A.W. and Irishjeeper for checking on me when I missed my normal post. You guys are awesome! Thanks also to Archerlove as always for her beta and encouragement. If you haven't checked out her fic "Sins of the Past" do it now, it's fantastic!_

o(16)o

"'Plash!"

Maire deftly dodged the water, laughing, and returned her daughter's happy splashing.

Sasha was covered in bubbles, the baby and the few bath toys Maire had been able to scrounge up almost lost amidst a sea of white foam. Cupping a handful of bubbles in her hand, Maire blew them across the tub where they landed on Sasha's head, eliciting more delighted squeals from the baby.

Unfortunately for her, Sasha decided to imitate her mother a moment later and Maire got a face full of soapsuds and spit.

Wiping at her face, Maire looked down at her laughing daughter and couldn't help the giggle that escaped. Bath time was one of Sasha's favorite things and nothing made Maire feel better than seeing her daughter happy.

Leaning over the tub, the porcelain cold against her bare midriff (she had long ago learned that wearing a shirt during bath time was futile at best), Maire scooped a cupful of water and carefully shielded Sasha's eyes before dumping it over the baby's head, sending torrents of bubbles spinning and swirling.

"Hello?" Connor's voice echoed through the apartment and Maire straightened, unable to tell if it was coming through the heating ducts or from the other room.

"Hello?" she called back, "Connor?"

"Maire?" the bathroom door opened, answering her question, and Maire moved to cover the ratty bra she was wearing as he peeked in.

"Ah Christ," the bathroom door quickly shut again. "I didn't even fuckin' think."

"We'll be out in just a minute, make yourself at home." Reaching for a towel, Maire rubbed the worst of the water from her shoulders and arms before scooping her daughter out of the tub.

Sasha began to cry, twisting in her arms, looking mournfully at the bubble filled tub.

"Don't you want to see Connor?" she asked and the baby stopped ,looking up at her, tears shining in her eyes. For a moment she seemed to waver between the two.

"Kree?"

Maire nodded, "He's waiting for us in the living room. Don't you think we should say hello?"

Sasha gave one last longing look at the tub before turning her attention back to her mamma, "Kay."

"Okay," Maire said, wrapping her in the towel. "You dry off and I'm going to put a shirt on."

She had just enough time to tug a shirt over her head before Sasha decided to forgo playing with the towel in favor of air-drying. Pushing the bathroom door wide open she offered her mamma a wide grin before running into the living room completely naked.

"Baby Streaker!" Maire laughed, grabbing a bottle of lotion and following her daughter out to where Connor was looking out the living room window.

He glanced down as Sasha ran around his legs, babbling happily, and then met Maire's eyes, grinning.

"Sorry about that." She said, kneeling to spread the towel out on floor and opening the lotion. "We like bath time."

Watching the naked blur of energy running around the room, Connor nodded, still smiling, "I can tell."

Maire poured a good amount of lotion onto her hands, rubbing it over them and Sasha raced over to the towel, plopping down and beaming at Connor.

Connor furrowed a brow at them both, "what are ye doin' there?" he asked.

Gently, Maire smoothed the lotion over her daughter's back and arms, rubbing it over the tiny body in long smooth strokes.

"It's something I've always done with the kids," she replied shrugging, "it helps with stress and growing pains."

"Healing touch?" his tone was teasing and Maire quirked an eyebrow at him.

"As a matter of fact, it is." She said, leaving out the fact that she'd had at least a dozen books on massage therapy that had been lost in the fire. It was the ultimate form of affectionate touch and Maire loved the concept. She had even considered going to school for it at one time.

"Does that mean ye give a good backrub then, as well?" The mischievous sparkle in his eyes made her laugh.

"That's what they tell me."

"Good ta know." he replied, "I might have ta take advantage of that someday."

The baby was making happy humming noises, toying absently with her toes and Maire smiled down at her daughter. "We'll see." She said softly, snapping the lid of the lotion bottle closed.

"Up?" Sasha inquired and she nodded.

"You're free," looking up, she realized that Connor was still watching her, an amused smile curving his mouth and felt her cheeks warm. Looking around she realized that something was missing.

"Where's Murphy?"

Connor shrugged, "he's got that bug that's been goin' around. Poor bastard's done nothing but ralf all morning."

Maire grimaced, "yikes."

"Ye're tellin' me. We wanted ta give ye this together, but seein' as he's sick and all, plus ye've been here a week already . . ." he held a paper sack out to her. "It's a housewarming gift."

Maire lifted an eyebrow, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth as she opened the bag "It's a monkey lamp." She said taking the hideous thing out, biting her lip as she examined it.

A plaster cast monkey in a Hawaiian skirt, a light bulb sticking out of the top of its head, was carefully balancing a vibrantly clashing shade between it's paws. The array of pinks, oranges, blues and greens managed to give entire thing the impression of a luau gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"Did you pick it out?" she asked cautiously, wondering if she really wanted to know the answer.

Much to her chagrin, Connor nodded his head, "Murph and I found it and thought ye'd like it. Besides, it was either this or one of Murphy's casseroles," he grimaced, "believe me, ye got the better end of the bargain."

"Oh?"

"Have ye ever _had_ egg and hotdog casserole?"

"No, but it sounds pretty good." Maire said, making a note, she'd have to try that sometime.

Connor blinked at her for a moment, then shook his head, "Christ. _Anyway_, the lamp is from both 'o us, but these are from me alone."

He extended a plain folder toward her and Maire's gaze shifted from the folder to the imploring, almost nervous, look on his face. He was serious now, and Maire noticed that the hand that was holding the folder trembled ever so slightly. She was aware of the sudden change in the apartment's atmosphere, the mood becoming expectant. Waiting.

She took the file, turning it over in suddenly undsteady hands, butterflies forming in her stomach. Looking inside, she caught her breath, certain that her heart had stopped at that very moment.

Inside the folder were half a dozen pictures drawn by her son. Brightly colored and boldly drawn, Martin's style was unmistakable and Maire's throat closed looking at the drawings.

"Oh, Connor." She breathed, gently running her fingertips over the glitter sprinkled paper. "Thank you so much."

He nodded, looking at the floor, "I found them in one o' my old bags and thought ye might like to have them back."

Flipping through the pictures, Maire felt her smile begin to waver, teetering on the verge of tears.

_Her masterpiece._

She didn't know what to say, didn't know if she even could force any sound past the lump in her throat. Of all the things she had lost, the precious things that tied her to Martin had been the most painful to bear, but Connor had somehow managed to do the impossible and return to her a piece of her son.

"Why?" she whispered.

"I told ye, I thought ye'd like ta have them."

Maire shook her head at his misunderstanding. "Why go through all of this trouble for me? I'm grateful, don't get me wrong, but I'm still a stranger to you."

When he didn't respond, Maire looked up at him, seeing him still staring at the same worn spot on her floor, smiling at some distant memory.

"A friend once told me that everybody needs a helping hand sometimes. I don't know what circumstances brought you here, or why, but when I saw you and Sasha that first night, I knew you both needed that hand," he chuckled slightly, shaking his head, "my gut said it was the right thing to, so I did."

"Sounds like quite a friend." Maire said.

"She was . . . _is._"

Maire couldn't help the tiny jab of envy she felt at his words; she had no reason to be jealous but there was still something in her that tightened up at the thought of Connor with someone.

_Someone that isn't you,_ a small voice spoke up, and Maire pointedly ignored it.

Looking up, she frowned at his expression, "I didn't mean to stir up old memories."

There was the briefest of pauses, and then he met her eyes, lifting an eyebrow, giving Maire the impression that he knew _exactly_ what she was really asking him.

He proved her right a moment later, "Ye can put that green-eyed monster back in yer pocket. We were never like that."

The blood rushed straight to Maire's face and she ducked her head, torn between utter humiliation at being so transparent and the strangest sense of relief. She could hear herself stammering out an excuse, but his soft chuckle cut her off.

"S'okay, darlin', its nice ta know ye care."

Rolling her eyes, Maire gave up and laughed with him, "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay." She said, finally.

"Everything's fine," he said, "I just have a bit on my mind, is all."

"Well," she said sobering, wondering if that was a lie she heard in his voice, "if you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

"Thanks, darlin', but I really am fine. I should get back though." He inclined his head toward the door, "check on Murph and all."

Maire nodded biting her lip, "Thank you." She said, stretching up to press a light peck on the corner of his mouth, feeling him smile under her lips.

"Ye're welcome, I'll stop by later ta check on ye, all right?"

"Making the rounds?" she asked and had the satisfaction of hearing his low chuckle.

"Aye."

Nodding, Maire quietly closed the door behind him before turning her attention back to the pictures in her hands. What were the chances? Carefully setting them aside she picked up the lamp, snorting at the monkey's overzealous expression.

She was certain that as long as she lived she would never see a more incongruous household accessory.

It was already starting to grow on her.

o()o

"How're ye feelin?" Connor asked, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"This fuckin' sucks," Murphy's voice came from the bathroom, "I think I actually turned inside out at some point.

His twin stepped into view and Connor frowned at how pale Murphy was and the glassy, pained expression in his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Murph," he murmured, reaching out to place a hand against Murphy's forehead.

His brother swatted his hand away with a grunt, "Knock it off, I'm fuckin' fine."

"Ye don't look fine."

"Well, I am." The words were harsh, but they were spoken without force as the blood drained from Murphy's face and he brought a hand to his belly. "Fuckin' hell," he gasped.

"Do ye want ta skip tonight? Connor asked, pressing a hand against his twin's shoulder, guiding him into the living room where he could sit down.

Murphy shook his head, sinking into the battered sofa, still guarding his abdomen, "We've worked too hard on this one ta let it go now."

"It's not goin' ta be much of a mission if ye're too busy pukin' on the guy's shoes ta actually kill him."

"I said I'd be fine," Murphy scowled, "Do I need ta repeat it in Italian before ye get it through your thick skull?"

Connor held up his hands in supplication, "All right, all right, have it your way," he said, "Christ but ye're a narky bastard when ye're sick."

"I'm not fuckin' narky and I'm not fuckin' . . ." Murphy paused, and then sighed, offering Connor a weak grin. "All right, I'm a narky fuckin' bastard when I'm sick."

"Amen ta that," Connor said, pushing a smile around the worry that was gnawing at his brain, "why don't ye see about havin' a kip before we have ta leave."

His twin nodded, curling around the tattered lump of stuffing that served as a throw pillow and closing his eyes, "Wake me in an hour would ye?"

"I will, aye."

After a moment Murphy's breathing evened out and his face relaxed. Once certain that he was sleeping, Connor rested a hand against his brother's forehead, feeling the heat there. It wasn't a high fever, but it was a fever nonetheless and Connor frowned at his twin's sleeping form. Murphy rarely got sick, but when he did, it was nothing to laugh about.

Sighing Connor pushed the worry away and went to retrieve his duffel from it's hiding place wedged in a high cabinet in the kitchen. He had moved both of the bags there prevent them from being discovered while Maire and Sasha had stayed there.

The thought of Maire sent an unfamiliar twinge through Connor. He had seen the still healing mass of bruises that covered her back when he'd unthinkingly walked into the bathroom. The sight had been like a physical blow, a maddening reminder that there was more to the story than he knew.

She was hiding things from him, refusing to tell him anything about what had happened to her or how she had come into his and Murphy's care. Never one to tolerate lying, Connor was getting frustrated with the untruths that she was feeding him. Yet sometimes the unguarded fear in her eyes. . .

Shaking his head, Connor tugged a gun from the duffel and began to reduce it to a pile of parts fit for cleaning. Maire and her secrets would just have to wait for now, he told himself.

He had a lawyer to kill.

o()o


	17. Chapter 17

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone for their patience and encouragement all of you out there in PCLand are the best and I don't tell you that nearly enough.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **There are hills in Ireland, that if you drive halfway up them and put the car in neutral and take your foot off the break, they'll actually roll uphill, cool huh?_

o(17)o

Spacious, luxurious, and refined, the office reminded Murphy of something right out of a business magazine.

Grayscale landscapes adorned the walls, accenting the office's sleek black and polished chrome decor. A giant, glass-topped desk graced the middle of the room; partnered with a large, expensive-looking leather chair, it gave the entire area an air of ruthless professionalism.

The only thing missing was the lawyer.

Drawing his gun, Murphy wiped at a bead of sweat that threatened to drip into his eye and glanced over at his twin.

"Are ye sure it was tonight?" he whispered.

Connor paused in his surveillance of the space and glanced over his shoulder, giving Murphy a look that clearly expressed what he thought about such a question. Chagrined, Murphy shrugged.

Of course, it had been tonight, they hadn't spent an entire week planning this hit to show up on the wrong fucking night.

As if the look hadn't been enough, his twin turned his gaze skyward.

"What, did ye leave yer brain in yer other fuckin' pants Murph?" Connor whispered, carefully moving to nudge open a door at the far corner of the office.

Murphy remained silent; saving his retort until Connor nodded that the adjacent room was empty.

"Fuck ye," he said, "I was just askin' . . ." his words elicited another eye roll from his brother.

"Just stop now, ye're killin' my brain cells."

Shooting one last cagey glance around the room, Murphy moved behind the immaculate desk, opening drawers and prodding the contents with the barrel of his gun.

There was the normal array of pens, paperclips and envelopes, but each drawer he examined was unfortunately devoid of a list entitled _My Grievous Sins Against Humanity._

"Well?" The word was no more than a breath and Murphy knew without looking that his brother was getting anxious, arms crossed, nervously fingering his holstered weapons.

Pairing a helpless glance with a shrug, he opened the last drawer, a smile tugging his mouth as he looked inside. _Perfect_.

Grinning, he pulled the small black book from it's hiding place, brandishing it proudly before thumbing through the pages. He had hoped for something to go on, anything at all to salvage their mission, but each one of the appointments looked legit, written in neat, precise, script across the pages.

"Fuck," he muttered, still flipping through the pages, "Ye'd think at least the bastard . . ."

Murphy saw the shadow a split second before Connor grabbed him, pulling him into a crouch behind the desk with a muttered curse.

The shadow paused in front of the frosted glass door that led into the office, and Murphy held his breath, waiting, his finger poised over the trigger of his gun.

There was an endless moment of silence, then the sound of an ancient vacuum cleaner rumbling to life. Meeting Connor's eyes, Murphy could read his twin's expression even through the black of the mask he wore.

They were trapped.

The scenario had gone from bad to worse in a matter of moments. Evil men, they could deliver to their maker. The night janitor, however, was another matter entirely.

"Fuckin' great," Connor muttered, incensed, "could this get any worse?"

As though his twin's thought had given word to deed, the room was suddenly stifling and a vicious pain knifed through Murphy's gut, a sharp reminder of how sick he'd been earlier. The world lurched violently and Murphy swallowed, grimacing.

_Not here,_ he prayed, clenching his fists, willing the pain and nausea away, _not fucking here, not fucking now._

"Murph?" his brother's voice was soft, concerned, as he placed a hand on Murphy's shoulder.

Sucking in a breath through his teeth and releasing it with a hissed expletive, Murphy bowed his head, certain for a moment that he was going to be sick.

Again.

But as quickly as the pain had come, it was gone, and he nodded to his twin, "M'fine."

The sounds of the vacuum cleaner faded, moving further and further away from the office and both brothers paused, holding their breath, afraid to hope for the best.

There was a tense moment of silence before the shrill ring of the phone startled them both. Connor jumped, his head connecting with the top of the desk with a bang.

Murphy snorted, even as he glanced to make sure nobody had heard them. "Ye fuckin' klutz."

"Fuck ye," Connor replied quietly, rubbing the top of his head, "that was fuckin'-"

The telltale beep of an answering machine severed his words and after a moment, a thickly accented voice filled the spacious office.

"_Señor _Ford, we just wanted to inform you that your little problem has officially been laid to rest by the _policia_. Missing, presumed dead, I believe they called it. Consider this a gesture of goodwill from _Señor _Mendoza and the _Sacerdotes._"

There was the sound of the line disconnecting and another final sounding beep from the answering machine. Murphy turned wide eyes toward his twin, the adrenaline that had just started to fade from his veins, flooding back with surprising intensity.

The fucking lawyer was in league with the Street Priests, in-fucking-credible.

"Holy shit," beside him, Connor rose to his feet with a groan, shifting the weight off of his bad leg and returning his gun to the holster he wore.

Rubbing his head through the black of his mask, he grinned, "I fuckin' love it when that happens."

Holstering his own weapon and buttoning his jacket, Murphy shook his head and motioned to the door, it was now or never.

"What're the chances?"

o()o

Maire awoke suffocating in the darkness that surrounded her. Choking on smoke, she struggled against her merciless attacker, kicking and clawing, frantically trying to liberate herself.

Finally, with a muted cry, she wrenched free, scrabbling to the head of the bed, panting.

_She was going to die._

She could feel it, the certainty coursing through every vein and artery, embedded into every cell.

Mashing a numb hand against her face, she tried to force a breath into her lungs, only to have it explode out again, rejected by her adrenaline charged body. She couldn't breathe.

"Maire?"

She whipped around at the sound of her name, one hand held up in self-defense, the other clutching at her chest.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the watery light that filtered through her windows.

Wide-eyed, Maire backed away from the ominous shadow, pressing herself further against the peeling paint of the wall.

He was by her side in an instant, reaching out to her, "Look at me, darlin. No, _at_ me. Ye're safe, ye're here with me, and ye're safe. Breathe."

"Connor."

Her heart hurt, her eyes watered, her body trembled, but Connor was there, giving her something to hold on to, something that was warm, solid, and _real. _He smoothed a hand over her back, rubbing gently as he spoke to her. Maire couldn't make out his words over the rushing of blood in her ears, but his tone was low and soothing.

"Easy now," his voice was soft, "take a few deep breaths."

With aching slowness,the feeling returned to her fingers and toes and the iron band that had been squeezing her chest began to loosen. Drawing in a deep breath, Maire blew it out, into a dark sweater.

With embarrassment, she realized that Connor had pulled her into his lap, and she had buried her face into his neck. She could smell fresh smoke on his skin, the remnants of some crisp smelling cologne as well as the stronger but not unpleasant odor of sweat.

The slowly fading panic was replaced with discomfiture and Maire pulled away, biting her lip.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, but Connor shushed her, still rubbing her back as he guided her back into his arms.

"There's no need for that," he chided into her hair, "ye've done nothin' wrong."

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"Ye didn't. We'd just gotten back when I heard ye through the vent."

"Back from where?" she asked. It was none of her business, she knew, but the sound of his voice was keeping her grounded in the real world. It was keeping her from being _there._

"Murphy and I were just out . . . for a drink."

"Oh," she said, dumbly, not missing the awkward pause between his words.

_You really are a rotten liar, Connor MacManus,_ she thought, but the anxiety that was still fresh in her mind kept her from voicing her opinion.

"Where's Murphy?" she asked instead.

"He went on in, stomach's botherin' him again."

"Poor guy." She pulled away a bit and looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her sleep shirt. "You should be down there with him, Connor, not up here," she grimaced, "baby-sitting me."

He lifted an eyebrow, offering her an amused smile, "Somehow, it doesn't feel quite like babysitting, seeing as how ye're half dressed and in my arms and all."

Maire offered him a thin smile; the terror was quickly ebbing from her body, leaving shame in its wake. She used to be able to _handle_ things; she used to be strong and capable. Now she felt merely pathetic.

"I hate this," she said, bowing her head as another shudder ran through her, "I don't want to be this way."

Connor's arms tightened around her, "There's nothin' wrong with ye that a bit o' time won't heal."

Maire began to argue, to tell him that he was mistaken, but Connor had obviously had enough talk and silenced her, stopping her flow of words with his mouth.

His lips were sweet, full, and demanding against hers, and Maire found herself pressed as close to him as she could get, gleaning both comfort from the contact and something different, deeper. She relaxed into the kiss, not wanting it to end, simply feeling every breath and movement and wave of sensation that he gave her.

She wanted this.

It felt good be close to someone, Connor's arms were secure around her, and his embrace was warm and reassuring. She could feel him toying with a strand of her hair, winding it around his fingers absently and the action sent a strange thrill coursing through her veins.

It was such a little thing, something not everyone would notice, but to Maire it was a poignant gesture, something that provided the affection she had been longing for. She wanted this. She wanted him . . .

_Get him involved and get him killed._

She couldn't.

Breaking the kiss, Maire closed her eyes and pressed her fingers over them, begging her emotions not to betray her.

"Connor, please,"

But Connor wasn't listening, his hand moved to cup the back of her head, and he pulled her face up to his, kissing her more thoroughly. Much more thoroughly.

Strong arms around her, well-muscled body pressed against hers, all thoughts of danger and willpower fled Maire, replaced by a flood of sensation. Comfort. Contact. Connor.

_Oh._

The fingers that were cupping her neck tangled and untangled in her hair, brushing against sensitive spots all up and down her spine. The other hand was still rubbing her back sending a strange combination of solace and heat zinging throughout her body. It swelled from each place Connor touched, filling her until she was shaking with the intensity of it.

Connor broke the kiss with a frown, swiping his thumbs across her cheeks. "What's wrong?"

Maire shook her head, sniffling softly as the emotion that was filling her reached its brim and spilled over. It was so good to be close to someone, such a relief. Tears streamed down her cheeks, unheeded and after a confused moment, Connor pulled her close to him

"Let it out, darlin'," he encouraged, "everything's all right."

Outside a burst of lightning illuminated the sky, and a moment later, there was the patter of rain on the roof. This distant grumble of thunder surprised Maire out of her tears.

"Storm's coming," she murmured against Connor's shoulder, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

He was silent for a moment, still stroking her hair, and then he nodded, his voice low and thickly accented in the dark.

"I think it's already here."

o()o


	18. Chapter 18

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm back on my posting schedule, horray! Thanks to everyone who stopped by to review or to check on me, I couldn't ask for a more wonderful group of readers. You guys are the bees knees for certain!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:** _Musha _is an irish word meaning "indeed", "well", "sure" with a somewhat resigned sentiment. Either from the Gaelic"mhuise" meaning "indeed" or "más ea" meaning "if it is so"._

o(18)o

"We have ta try again, ye know."

The voice came from underneath him and Connor looked down from Maire's fire escape, not surprised to see his brother looking up at him from their own stairwell, cigarette in hand.

"Christ, Murph, ye're as fuckin' subtle as a flung hammer." Connor said, tugging a slightly squashed package of cigarettes from his back pocket and easing one out.

The morning was gray and dreary, holding the promise of more rain, and the chill had seeped into Connor's long mended injuries making them ache mercilessly.

Murphy took a long pull from his cigarette, blowing the smoke up at Connor flippantly and then grimaced, a hand pressed to his abdomen.

Connor frowned down at his brother, "Still feelin' sick?"

Murphy shrugged, straightening, pain etched across his face. "S'not so bad this mornin', I think I might be on the mend."

_Liar, _Connor thought, but nodded, cupping his hand against the slight breeze and taking in a gratifying lungful of smoke.

"Catch," he said, conversationally, dropping the smoldering half-cigarette over the edge of the fire escape.

Murphy's hand shot out, a normal portrayal of his twin's quicksilver reflexes, but a sudden gust of wind caught the smoke and sent it spinning down to the street below along with a particularly colorful string of expletives that only his brother could manage.

"Guess I'll light another one when I get down there." Connor snorted, turning to duck back inside of Maire's window.

He paused at the tattered bed, looking at the woman who still slept there. She was curled into the spot he had recently vacated, her face unlined and peaceful. Connor brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes and looked down at her thoughtfully.

_It would be nice, though,_ he thought wistfully, _a home, a family, and a normal life. _

As quickly as the thought rose, he squashed it. His brother's experience with Danae had taught him all too well what could happen when an innocent got mixed up with the Saints. And Connor had taken that lesson to heart, he could never get her involved, it was simply too dangerous.

But now, watching Maire sleep, he felt an unfamiliar twist in his gut. He had never met anyone quite like her, the way she spoke, the way she moved, and the way her bright smile made him feel . . .

"Up?" A sleepy voice came from the other side of the bed and Connor was greeted by an unruly mass of blond hair as Sasha stood up in her makeshift crib, rubbing sleepily at her eyes.

"No, t'is still time for sleepin'."

Sasha blinked blearily at him a couple of times before lifting her arms, "Up," she insisted.

Chuckling, he obliged, scooping the baby into his arms. Sasha held on to him, snuggling against his chest much like her mother had done the previous night, toying with the exposed beads of his rosary.

"Mah, Kree?" she inquired, tilting her head to look up at him.

"What?" Connor glanced at her, confused, but the child was looking at him expectantly, awaiting an answer .

"Mah. Kree," she clarified, pointing to where here mother lay on the bed, taking a handful of his rosary along.

It made no more sense to Connor than before, but she seemed to be treating it as a very important question.

"Maybe." He replied with a shrug, gently disentagling the beads from the baby's hands and tucking them safely back inside his shirt.

"Kay."

Shifting his feet as he had seen Maire do, Connor swayed gently with Sasha, looking around the apartment as he did.

Maire had done a good job of making the place livable, a much better job than he and Murphy had done with their own apartment. Although, Connor had to admit that he was rather attached to the beer can and old take-out décor that graced their flat.

All of her things were used, mostly from the Salvation Army, he knew, but they were clean, colorful and in good repair, artfully placed around the space.

Martin's pictures hung on the far wall. The frames were cheap but they were expertly matted and displayed. He smiled at the eye-catching display, it was easy to see that Martin had gotten his creative tendencies from his mother.

Sasha pointed a chubby finger at the framed art, "Marn," she announced solemnly, giving a sigh that was unusually deep for such a little girl, "gone."

"He was a good kid," Connor said softly, remembering how excited the boy had been about his new little sister, "he certainly loved ye."

"Lub Marn." Sasha repeated, and Connor looked down at her surprised and amused. The expression on the little girl's face was startlingly mature, easily that of a downcast adult.

Moving away from the pictures, slowly pacing one more lap around the house, Connor offered her a smile, raising his eyebrows.

"All right, _galya_," he said, slowing his movements to a slow rock, "back ta bed now."

"No!" The protest was loud enough to make Maire stir, frowning in her sleep. The sleep shirt she was wearing shifted and Connor winced as some of the still-fading bruises that marred her back were revealed. They had faded to a sickly mottled mess of yellow and green, almost gone, but not quite.

They must have been worse than Connor had realized if they were taking so long to heal. The question arose in his mind, not for the first time, what exactly had happened to her.

"Shush," Connor chided, "ye'll wake yer Ma."

"No!" Louder this time, and Connor raised an eyebrow at the child. She glared back, lower lip sticking out, gray eyes impossibly wide and shining with tears.

Shaking his head, Connor shifted the baby slightly as he conceded and was rewarded with a wide grin and a quiet giggle, her tears already forgotten.

Bending over Maire he brushed the hair off of her face.

"I've got Sasha, darlin', I'm taking her downstairs with me."

Maire shifted sleepily and nodded, murmuring something into the pillow.

Connor smiled down at her then grinned at the baby in his arms, "Maybe I'd best leave a note."

Murphy met him at the door, snorting when he saw Sasha.

"Hope ye kept the receipt."

o()o

"Missing, presumed dead, huh?"

Smecker looked up from the report he was studying, frowning over to where Nigel sat, one arm thrown over the back of the overstuffed hotel chair, legs stretched out, a file open in front of him.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The Asian man shrugged, unabashedly flipping to another page, "I'm reading this, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Does the word _classified_ mean anything to you?"

Still reading, Nigel reached absently for a nearby package of cigarettes, tapping one out, "Not really."

"I should have left you at the airport, maybe I would have gotten lucky and they'd have deported you back to fagland."

"Stop being a bitch, Paul. Come here and look at this instead."

With a heavy sigh, Smecker rose to his feet, leaning over the back of the overstuffed chair, a hand resting on the other man's shoulder.

"We have this woman that the police just quit looking for," Nigel began, gesturing toward a police report and absently tucking the cigarette behind his ear.

The agent nodded his confirmation, "Maire Kennsett."

"Who goes to the police stating she witnessed a murder, _with pictures_ nonetheless, and gets turned away without so much as an investigation.

Huffing, Smecker shook his head; chalk that one up to the laziness of the South Boston PD. Apathetic bastards probably sent her away with a pat on the head and the promise of an extra patrol car.

Wincing, Nigel reached up and flicked at the point where Smecker's fingers were digging into his shoulder, "Ease up, it isn't my fault they gave her the brush off."

Smecker squeezed a little harder, just for good measure before relaxing his grip and nodding for the other man to continue.

"So anyway," Nigel continued with a sigh, "a few days after that, what should appear in the paper, but a picture of an execution. Not just any picture, mind you, but one incriminating this local brassballs lawyer."

"Who got out on a technicality and is now back to signing wills and chasing ambulances."

Nigel nodded up at him, "Then, the woman's apartment is turned into a reproduction of your cooking, but only after two gang members mysteriously turn up dead on her doorstep."

"Executed Saint-style, you aren't telling me anything new here."

"What I want to know, is _who_ exactly is this woman?"

Smecker paused, the caustic remark he had been in the middle of creating dying on his tongue as Nigel's question hit him full force.

"Seems to me that she's a little too important to be writing off as dead just yet."

Brow furrowing, Smecker leaned back, wondering if he could be a bigger dunce. He'd been so caught up in the crimes that he'd completely ignored the search for the woman, disregarding her as just another victim.

"Remind me," he said, plucking the cigarette from behind Nigel's ear and reaching into his pocket for a lighter, "why you aren't a detective."

The Asian offered him a rebuking look, "Are you kidding me?" he scoffed, "Guns? Holsters? All that bulk would absolutely kill my streamlined appearance."

Without thinking, Smecker glanced down at himself, surely it couldn't be that bad. He heard Nigel snicker and realized what he had done. Reaching around, he smacked the other man's cheek.

"Fairy," he derided.

Nigel simply rolled his eyes, reclaiming the cigarette and blowing a stream of smoke into Smecker's face.

"Bitch," he said unflappably.

"Why do I keep you around?"

His only response was a lecherous grin, Nigel's dark eyes sparkling impishly.

"Don't make me slap that look off your face," he said, feeling the blood rush to his own face.

Among other places.

Nigel's smile didn't waver, if possible, it even managed to widen, "Don't threaten me with a good time. Come on, I'll fix us something to eat."

o()o


	19. Chapter 19

o()o

**_Author's Note:_** Càllate _is spanish for shut up; _chicas, _of course, are girls; and _'manito_ is short for hermanito, or little brother. Special thanks to derangedfangirl for the correction! It's good to see that you guys'll keep me on the straight and narrow!  
**Nifty Fact of the Day:** The song Connor is singing to Sasha is called 'Rambling Irishman'. It's an older song, with tons of renditions. Everytime I heard it, this scene just begged to be written. _

o(19)o

Murphy paused outside of the room, listening to a familiar voice singing a familiar song. Looking around the doorway, he saw his brother lounging on their battered couch, a tiny blond bundle swaddled in a pink blanket cradled against his chest. The late afternoon sun slanted through their dirty windows, tingeing the room with golden hues.

Connor's eyes were closed, his cheek resting against Sasha's head and Murphy couldn't remember the last time he had seen his twin look so peaceful.

_I am a rambling Irishman  
In Ulster I was born in  
And many's the pleasant day I spent  
Round the shores of sweet Lough Erne  
For to be poor I could not endure  
Like others of my station  
To Americae I sailed away  
And left this Irish nation _

He recognized the song almost immediately; it was one that his Ma used to hum softly as she rocked her twin boys to sleep. It wasn't a lullaby, exactly, but it fit. And as he grew a little older, it was easy for Murphy to imagine that it was about their Da, sailing from Ireland to America on some grand adventure, missing his family as much as they missed him.

Of course he knew better now.

The grand adventure had turned out to be a blood-spattered calling that had landed Da in prison for half of his life, released only to resume the same calling. As Murphy listened to his brother's low voice crooning the memorable song, he couldn't help but wonder if he and Connor were to face the same lonely fate their father had endured.

The idea struck with a painful jolt. It seemed they were already starting down that path. He had found a brief bit of peace when Danae had entered his life, a bittersweet taste of what could have been, but it had been cruelly taken away and with it, his heart.

The righteous fire that had burned so brightly in him before had been banked and replaced with a sort of resigned dutifulness. He missed Danae more than he would ever let anyone grasp. He missed seeing her wry smile and the sound of her laugh. He missed the conversations they had and the good-natured teasing she would willingly engage in.

He missed how happy she made him.

Murphy hid the feeling well, keeping it at bay as best he could, but he didn't know if he could ever get past it. He wouldn't wish the misery the entire situation caused on anybody.

Least of all, his brother.

_The night before I went away  
I spent it with my darling  
Three o'clock in the afternoon  
'Til the break of day next morning  
But when that we were going to part  
We linked in each others arms  
For Americae we soon set sail  
A journey with no charms _

Yet that was the road they both seemed to be irrevocably headed down, a road promising little more than violence, bloodshed and an early death. Watching Connor cradle the baby, the worry lines smoothed away from his twin's face for the first time in months, fuck, in _years,_ and Murphy was struck with the reaffirmation that he didn't want that kind of life, moreso, he didn't want that kind of life for Connor.

They deserved to be fat old men living next door to one another, telling outrageous stories to scores of grandchildren, and ignoring the protests of their fat old wives.

Murphy had never seen himself as a family man, he was too impetuous by nature to make a good father or husband, it seemed. He had always been content to be dubbed the wilder of the MacManus twins, enjoying the freedom and abandon it brought. He could easily see himself as a bachelor for the rest of his days. But Connor?

Connor was another story altogether. His brother loved children and was happiest at home, surrounded by the people he loved. He found peace and comfort in the domestic things that Murphy had no patience for.

When they were younger, Connor used to talk about having a family, making grand plans to build a house somewhere in the wild Irish countryside. As they had delved deeper and deeper into their mission, however, Connor had talked less about his dreams until they were never mentioned at all. Murphy often feared that his twin had given up on them.

_And when we reached the other side  
we were both stout and healthy  
We dropped our anchor in the bay  
Going down to Philadelphi'  
So let every lass drink to her lad  
In blue jacket and white trousers  
And let every lad drink to his lass  
And take them as life's spouses_

Now, seeing him with Sasha, Murphy realized that those dreams were still very much alive. The relief that accompanied that notion was surprisingly powerful. Maybe someday Connor could have his wish for a peaceful life and family. Maybe he could find peace enough for the two of them.

Pressing a soft kiss against Sasha's head, Connor looked up, meeting his eyes and smiling.

"I think she's asleep," he said, his voice quiet and pleased.

Murphy grinned, "Aye, either that or unconscious from havin' ta listen ta ye sing."

Connor rolled his eyes and shifted slightly, "Bastard," he said amiably, "C'mere and hold her for a sec so I can get up."

Murphy obeyed, taking the bundle of warmth from his twin, holding her gingerly. Sasha hummed sleepily and nestled against him with a contented sigh, and he was taken aback at the sweet throb he felt holding the little girl.

Maybe family life wouldn't have been so bad after all.

o()o

They had no idea that he was there, of that Esteban was certain.

Hidden in the shadows, the teen watched the exchange take place between his _tio _and the lawyer. It was difficult to tell who was angrier, both spoke in the clipped, precise tone of men trying desperately to be civil, but Esteban could see the anger snapping in their eyes. Between them, another man hunkered, forgotten.

Esteban recognized the other man as one of the Street Priest's low-level dealers, barely worthy of the tattoos that circled his wrists. Rumor among the other dealers and errand-runners was that he was keeping profits from the drugs he sold, that he dared to steal from his _familia._ Judging from the way the man cowered, the rumors had turned out to be true.

Arturo did not look kindly on such things and Esteban shuddered to think of the fate that was going to befall this hapless g_ilipollas. _His _tio_ was a good man, a fair man, but even he had his limits.

The lawyer gestured angrily toward the dealer, his face twisting in disgust. Arturo frowned at whatever had been said, shaking his head. Esteban leaned in a little closer, he could almost hear what they were saying . . .

A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder, making him jump and stifle surprised yelp. Wide-eyed he turned looking directly into his brother's grinning face.

"Scare you, _'manito_?" Tomas whispered smugly.

"_Càllate_!" Esteban hissed, "You'll get us caught."

"You shouldn't be lurking anyway, you know what _Mami _always said."

"Tomas, I swear if you don't shut your mouth . . ."

"Quiet!" Tomas commanded, the mirth fading from his eyes.

Esteban obeyed, following his brother's suddenly serious gaze to where Arturo and the lawyer were still arguing heatedly.

"Enough of this." The lawyer shouted, his voice loud enough to carry as he reached into the inside of his jacket.

There was a flash of movement, and Arturo barely had time to dodge the spray of gore as the top of the dealer's head abruptly dissolved into a mess of shattered bone and ruined brain.

"You dare!" Arturo roared as the body pitched forward, spasming once, and then stilling on the ground.

"He was a useless, thieving, addict. I did you a favor." The lawyer retorted, returning his weapon to the inside of his blazer.

"You have no right . . . "

"The sheer amount of money I have invested in this pathetic gang gives me the right."

"The _Sacerdotes de la Calle_ do not need you. _I _do not need you."

"Come on, 'manito," Tomas whispered softly, tugging on Esteban's arm, "I don't want to get caught, this is no time to try Arturo's patience."

Nodding, Esteban allowed himself to be led away from his hiding place and out into the fading daylight.

"I can't believe he killed Tito like that!" Now that they were safely out of earshot, Esteban was furious. "Who is he to judge a _Sacerdote_?"

His brother shrugged, nudging him slightly and walking toward the nearest bus stop, "Arturo probably would have killed him anyway."

"It wasn't his decision." Esteban protested, turning to scowl at the building they had just exited. Another upscale hotel, chosen to replace the one that had been marred by one too many dead soldiers for Arturo's taste.

No thanks to Esteban.

Guilt, thick and choking, clogged in the base of the teenager's belly. He had ratted out the _Sacerdotes _to the Evil Men that night in the hospital and his _familia _had paid dearly for his betrayal.

Arturo had forgiven him without a moments pause, smoothing Esteban's hair as he trembled against the crisp white hospital sheets. What had started out as a victorious transition into manhood had turned into a grievous failure. Esteban had failed his gang and his family, but worst of all, he had failed his _tio. _

"Watch where you're going, _'manito_!"

Tomas's warning came a split second too late and Esteban plowed into some poor pedestrian, knocking her down onto the dirty concrete. The grocery bag she had been carrying landed next to him, spilling its contents in both directions.

"_Dios! _I'm so sorry!" he gasped, extending a hand to her, "please let me help you. Are you okay?"

The woman blinked at him for a moment, her gray eyes wide and startled, then she shook her head and smiled up at him. "No worries," she said taking his hand and wincing as Esteban pulled her to her feet, "I'm fine."

A sudden keening cry made the teenager jump and the woman turned around, opening her arms. "Oh, baby," she said with a smile, "You're okay."

The tiny ball of blond barreled into her _mami's_ arms, and the woman rocked her daughter softly, murmuring comforts. Esteban looked at her, wishing desperately that the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

"Is she okay?" he asked apprehensively. Hurting a woman was bad enough, but to hurt a child; that was unforgivable.

The woman nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "I wasn't carrying her, she's just tired is all. We've had a big day."

A can bumped into his foot and he looked down, catching Tomas's meaningful gaze as his brother knelt, stuffing the woman's groceries unceremoniously back into their bag.

_Oh, right. _

Kneeling, Esteban gathered what groceries he could, grateful to see that Tomas had already wrangled most of them.

Praying that his face wasn't as red as it felt he took the bag from his brother, straightening to face the woman and her still crying daughter.

"I can carry these for you," he gestured toward the grocery sack, "Where are you going?"

For a moment, a frown crossed the woman's features, her gray eyes darkening like thunderheads, and Esteban could see fear in her face. It wounded him to think that she would be afraid of him. He wasn't some thug on the street, he had been raised right.

"I'm Esteban," he said, offering her his hand a second time, as well as his most charming smile, "and this is my brother, Tomas."

The introduction had the desired effect and a bit of the fear faded from the woman's face "Please, let me help you, my mother would kill me if she ever found out that I didn't help you."

"Brought up a gentleman, huh?" she chuckled, her eyes warm and amused.

Esteban nodded, thinking of his mother back home in Columbia, distinctly remembering the sting of a wooden spoon upside his head for pushing one of the village girls down when he was seven. Rosa Chavez was not a force to be reckoned with and when she taught a lesson, it stuck.

"You have no idea." He said, grinning at the memory.

"I appreciate the offer, really . . ."

"_Si, _we understand," a sharp elbow digging into Esteban's side accompanied Tomas's words, "Sorry for the trouble."

Blushing, Esteban gently placed the sack into the woman's free arm, watching as she settled both the bag and the baby expertly against her hips. With a final nod and smile she disappeared into the crowd of people that were gathering at the nearby bus stop.

"_Ave María purísima, 'manito_," Tomas said, rolling his eyes, "Why didn't you just ask her to marry you?"

Esteban fell into step beside his brother, ignoring the dig and allowing a second of comfortable silence to fall.

"She was _guapa_," he finally admitted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "very pretty."

Tomas stopped short, staring at him, a playful grin spreading over his face. "Aw!" he exclaimed loudly, causing nearby people to turn and look. "My little brother has _finally_ discovered _chicas_! _Mami _will be so proud!"

Blushing furiously, Esteban jammed his hands into his pockets, picking up his pace and muttering under his breath. Tomas would pay dearly for this, revenge involving an early morning and a water balloon loomed in his future.

As he walked ahead Esteban could hear the sound of his brother's laughter behind him and, despite his irritation, couldn't help the smile that broke free.

It wasn't a sound he heard often enough.

o()o


	20. Chapter 20

o()o

_**Author's Note: **It's fluff! It's smut! It's Smluff! It's also rated M for sexual content. If you're too young, or if that sort of thing bothers you, go ahead and skip the second bit of this chapter, you won't lose any of the plot, I promse.  
**Nifty Fact of the Day: **At only 198 calories per pint, Guinness has fewer calories per pint than both milk and orange juice. Good news for all of us trying to shed a couple pounds for summer!_

o(20)o

Maire nudged the MacManuses door open with her toes, juggling both sleeping baby and mangled bag of groceries as best she could. Connor was seated on the bed, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder while he lit a cigarette.

Glancing up, he saw her and grinned, tossing his lighter away and getting to his feet.

"Aye," he said into the phone. Catching her eye, he gave her a broad wink before reaching to take the bag of groceries from her.

Maire relinquished the sack and sighed gratefully, trying to shake some feeling back into her arm. She settled onto the couch, unable to suppress a groan as she shifted her daughter's weight. Sasha was getting so big, so fast!

"He isn't, he's sleeping. Aye, a bit o' the flu we're thinkin'." Connor continued his one-sided conversation, rummaging around in the grocery bag and pulling out the few items that Maire had picked up for them.

"Thanks for getting our messages, darlin'," he said, and then paused listening. "No, not you", he replied to whomever was on the other end of the phone. "I fuckin' _am _talking to you."

"Messages?"

He looked up at her, "the groceries." Another pause, and into the phone, "No, not you."

"No problem." It wasn't a lie, exactly.

Running errands for the brothers was part kindness and part trial. This was her second time to the grocery store alone and she was proud of the fact that she had been just fine both times, no anxiety attack in sight.

The fear was still there, cold and slimy in the pit of her stomach, coiling behind her eyes and against the palms of her hands, but she was facing it.

It was the closest thing to actually healing that she could get.

Across the apartment, one of the shabby mattresses stirred and an even shabbier Murphy appeared, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Wait a sec, he's up," Connor said into the phone. "Murph."

Murphy turned toward his brother mid-rub, eyebrow raised.

"Da." Connor said, gesturing toward the phone before lobbing it across the room.

Murphy's hand shot out deftly, catching the receiver, and Maire blinked, wishing she could be that coordinated first thing out of bed.

"Da!" Murphy exclaimed with a slightly unsteady smile, returning a tattooed hand to his eyes, "how's the form?"

"Do ye want me ta take her?" Connor asked, turning away from his brother and nodding toward Sasha, "Yer arms have got ta be half dead by now."

With a chuckle, Maire relinquished her daughter, feeling the same bittersweet throb she always felt seeing the way Connor's expression softened as he looked at Sasha and the way her baby snuggled into his chest, completely at ease with him.

_He would make a great father_ . . .

"Are ye stayin' for dinner? It'll be a late meal, but I promise I won't let Murphy cook this time."

"Hey!" the indignant cry came from across the room and was almost immediately followed by a muttered "No, not you."

Maire shook her head, replacing the remaining groceries back into the sack and hefting it. "I think it's going to be an early bedtime tonight, she's had a busy day."

There was a flicker of something in Connor's eyes, a glint of emotion before he gave her a smile. "I'll just help ye put those away, then."

"Thank you."

They stepped out into the graffiti covered hallway, shutting the door behind them. "So that was your father on the phone?" she asked, as they made their way upstairs to her apartment.

"It was, aye. Checkin' in and all that."

"Are you guys close?"

Connor paused, his hand on the stair rail, "Not really."

The tone of his voice made Maire frown, "I'm sorry."

Shrugging, Connor opened her front door and guided her inside with a warm hand pressed against the small of her back. "Tisn't a big deal, really. We've only known him for a couple of years."

The apartment was dark and shadowy; Maire's hands began to tremble as she reached for the nearest source of light. She could hear Murphy's voice through the ventilation, still talking to his father and outside, thunder rumbled, muted by distance, but still loud enough to reverberate through her.

Another storm was rolling in.

"Really?" Carefully she lowered Sasha into her makeshift bed, smoothing her daughter's hair back to make room for a kiss.

For a moment Connor was silent, removing the contents of the grocery sack for a second time and spreading them out over her scratched kitchen counter.

One long exhale later and he spoke and Maire could see that the topic bothered him. "Aye, he left when we were kids, it was a fuckin' million to one shot, findin' him like we did."

"He left you?"

"Something like that."

"Figures," she mused bitterly, wrapping her arms around her middle, looking out at the last bit of the sunset that hadn't been obscured by thunderheads as it faded into the dusky blues and blacks of night.

"Well, if it makes any difference, he didn't have much of a choice in the matter."

"There's always a choice," she argued, surprised at the resentment that edged her words, Maire was never one to dwell, but this topic was sensitive, scraped raw by broken promises and endless hurts.

_Another wife, a healthy baby . . ._

Connor offered her a small, rueful smile, "Not really, darlin', he was in prison for most of our lives, t'is hard to be a doting father behind bars."

"Oh." Maire's antipathy deflated on itself and she wondered if she could have said anything more tactless. It didn't seem likely.

"Hey," he moved to stand next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder, his eyes concerned and serious, "somethin' ye want ta talk about?"

She looked away shaking her head. Connor kept his hand on her shoulder and she forced herself not to close her eyes against the warmth of it.

Connor watched her silently, his eyes narrowed in thought before they widened abruptly. "The kids' dad," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Maire swallowed against the emotion swelling in her throat.

Glancing down at Sasha, Connor stroked a thumb across the sleeping baby's cheek,

"He was a fuckin' fool."

"Sometimes I wonder."

The hand on her shoulder slid up to cup the back of her neck and Connor pressed a kiss against her forehead and another on the tip of her nose before ghosting his mouth over hers.

The kiss was unexpected and sweet, the warmth of Connor's body and the almost familiar sound of his breathing.

"Never wonder." He whispered, again lowering his mouth to hers.

o()o

Calloused hands slid over her sides and Maire's skin prickled into gooseflesh as Connor relieved her of her shirt, feathering kisses along her neck and collarbone. She brought a tentative hand to his cheek, and he pressed a kiss against her palm, smiling into the sensitive skin there.

"Are ye all right?"

Maire made a noise that was half affirmation, half gasp as his fingers brushed yet another sensitive spot, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.

A gentle tug on the waistband of her khakis sent a spike of heat through her, and with it, a flood of self-consciousness.

There hadn't been anyone in Maire's life since Greg, and she was suddenly very aware of her baby belly and the fact that she hadn't painted her toenails in forever.

Pulling out of his embrace, Maire covered herself, unable to meet his eyes.

"Maire?" the concern was back in Connor's voice.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, "I don't think this such a good idea."

Cupping the back of her neck, Connor tilted her face up to his. He regarded her for a moment and gave her a sweet smile.

"Ye're more beautiful than ye know."

Despite her discomfiture, Maire chuckled, "You're quite the charmer, Connor MacManus."

"I'm honest," he said, taking her hand in his and gently gliding down over his chest and belly until it was resting against the hard ridge beneath his jeans.

"Ye do this ta me, darlin," he said, his tone rich,"sometimes just lookin' at ye. . . "

_Oh God . . . _

Swallowing, her eyes never leaving his, Maire tentatively rubbed her thumb over the denim and was rewarded with a low moan. Bowing his head, Connor pressed a soft kiss against her forehead, lacing his fingers with hers, gently encouraging her exploration.

Emboldened with each quiet groan that vibrated through him, Maire bit her lip, fumbling awkwardly with his belt. After a moment of letting her flounder, he intervened, deftly loosening it with one hand, his other smoothing along her sensitive skin.

"Will we wake the baby?"

Maire shook her head, glancing over to where her daughter slept peacefully in the makeshift bed. "She's out."

"Good." Another lingering kiss accompanied the word and he pulled her closer, wrapping strong arms around her.

It became a game, slipping off articles of clothing, mouths trailing behind hands along mountains and valleys of warm flesh.

Maire landed on the bed with a soft thump and a giggle, Connor standing over her. He offered her a grin that managed to be both sweet and lecherous before settling between her knees, sliding a hand between them. Maire watched, transfixed by the play of muscle under his skin, until he pressed several kisses against the inside of her thigh, sending a lustful shiver through her.

"Oh, Connor . . . Oh, God," the words came in between gasps and her hips moving of their own accord, pleading for what she couldn't put into words. Connor's smile told her that he understood, and after a low chuckle, he obliged.

He surrounded her, as comforting as he was sensual, as reassuring as he was provocative. Maire clutched at the bedsheets as he brought her closer to the edge.

_Connor. _

She wasn't sure if she had actually cried out, or if his name had simply exploded in her mind, either way he was there, capturing her mouth with his own.

Maire arched against him as he slid into her, digging her fingers into the muscles of his back reveling in the ancient rhythm they were creating, delicious pressure already rebuilding in her core.

"Not yet," he murmured into the hollow of her throat, smiling at the pleading mewl that escaped her as he slowed their pace to an agonizing tease, sweat dampening his hairline and chest.

He kept the maddening cadence, his expression dancing along the fine line between pleasure and pain until finally, he pressed a hand under Maire's hips, bringing her to her second climax.

Through the fireworks sparkling behind her eyelids, Maire was aware of Connor crushing her to him, muffling the sounds of his own climax against her shoulder.

For several moments the room was quiet, the silence marred only by the sound of their breathing. Smiling sweetly down at her, Connor traced slow circles across her shoulders with one hand, still supporting himself with the other, seeming perfectly content to stay where he was.

Maire bit her lip as another aftershock shivered through her, a final echo of what had just happened. "That was amazing."

_"You _were amazing," He corrected quietly, the circles moving from her shoulder to the side of her neck, catching an occasional strand of hair.

_I love you._

She wanted him to know, _needed _him to know, but the words caught in her throat, refusing to be spoken aloud.

His hand moved once again, tracing her features with his thumb, skimming down her temple, over her cheekbone, jaw and lips.

"Ye know what?" he said, grinning.

Maire returned his smile. "What's that?"

"I could really go for a milkshake."

She couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped her. "A milkshake?"

"Aye, doesn't that sound good?"

Eyes wide, Maire looked up at him, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. It really _did_ sound good; there was no denying that.

Connor's grin widened as he watched her, "Drive through?" he murmured easing their separation with a lingering kiss.

Maire closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the last moments of their union before beaming up at him and nodding.

"Drive though, it is."

o()o

Connor slipped back into his own apartment, blinking against the darkness that was such a contrast with the glaring florescent lights in the hallway. He had left Maire sleeping soundly, after receiving a goodbye kiss, of course.

"Murph?"

A muffled moan answered him and Connor felt his heart kick up a notch at the pain in his brother's voice.

Murphy was huddled on his bed, wrapped not only in his own blankets, but Connor's as well, stolen from the adjacent bed. His already pale skin was ashen and waxy and Connor frowned seeing the sharper angles of his twin's face.

Something was very wrong.

Placing his hand against his twin's forehead, Connor drew back his hand with a gasp. He was no doctor, but it didn't take one to realize that Murphy was burning up.

Oh, _fuck . . . _

"C'mon Murph," he said, sliding an arm around his twin's shoulders, easing him up into a sitting position, "I need ye ta help me now."

"Ow, fuck, lemme alone," Murphy ground out, curling into a tighter ball, swatting weakly at him.

"Come _on,_ Murphy," Connor repeated more forcefully, physically hauling his twin to his feet, not missing the quiet whimper Murphy made at the movement. The pitiful sound struck an anxious chord in Connor, if there was one thing his twin could handle, it was pain.

"Christ, Conn, are ye tryin' ta fuckin' kill me? What the fuck do ye want?"

"Ye've been too fuckin' sick for too long and now ye've a fever. We're goin' ta the hospital."

Murphy opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, the blood drained from his face and Connor barely caught him as he collapsed.

o()o


	21. Chapter 21

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Happy Sunday to everyone out there in PCLand! I'm hoping this chapter finds you all well and in good spirits. It's been a rough kinda week in my world, so I'm asking you guys to drop me a line and tell me about _your_week. I could use the interaction right now.**  
Nifty Fact for the Day:**Connor's prayer is psalm 41:3, The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing: thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness. The language he is speaking is Latin.  
_

o(21)o

How could he not have realized that Murphy was so sick?

The thought kept surfacing in his mind, disrupting his already unsteady flow of prayer. The nurses had known immediately. They had taken one look at his brother and promptly shooed Connor out of the room, leaving him alone in the lobby with nothing but his faith and daytime television for company.

It felt like he had been sitting there for hours, hunched over his clasped hands, praying for his twin, but each glance at the clock showed that only minutes had passed.

He direly, desperately, needed a cigarette, but couldn't bring himself to step outside for one. If something happened to Murphy and he wasn't there . . .

He fumbled his rosary, dropping the precious thing through nervous fingers and onto the floor. Swearing softly, he picked it up and slipped it back around his neck.

"S_itivit anima mea ad Deum fortem;"_ the Latin was as familiar as the crucifix against his palm but the peace that normally accompanied his talking with God was inexplicably absent, leaving only the most stomach-churning sense of helplessness Connor had ever experienced.

"_Vivum quando veniam et parebo ante faciem Dei,"_

When they were kids, he had hauled Murphy, spluttering and blue-tinged out of the lake near their cousin's after he had fallen through a thin spot of ice into the glacial slush below. He had half carried and half dragged his unconscious twin two miles back to their house after they had stolen their uncle's car and wrecked it when they were fifteen. He had jumped off the roof of a building. Hell, he had even taken a bullet to protect his twin.

Connor had pulled Murphy out of death's grasp more times than he cared to count, but this time he _couldn't_. His brother's life had been ripped from his own hands and dumped into the hands of strangers.

And there was absolutely _nothing_ that he could do about it

Shuddering, he tried to turn his attention back to praying for his brother, but found his entreaties turning into a disjointed jumble of languages.

How could he not have known?

"Mr. MacManus?"

He was out of the uncomfortable lobby chair and next to the blue-clad nurse in an instant. "How is he?"

"Tests show that your brother's appendix has already ruptured, we're going to be taking him to surgery."

"Surgery?" Connor's chest tightened at the word, "Is he goin' ta be all right?"

The nurse pressed her lips together, "We don't know yet. The main goal right now is to get his appendix out and get him started on antibiotics in case of sepsis. After that, it'll take some time before we know anything definite."

Swallowing against the bile rising in his throat Connor managed to nod, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Can I see him?"

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look; "they're already prepping him for the O.R. He won't be able to have visitors until after we get him into recovery."

"Christ." Half explicative, half-prayer, Connor found his fingers wrapped around his rosary again, clutching at it through the fabric of his shirt.

"I need you to go over to that far desk and fill out some paperwork."

"Paperwork?"

"There are a few forms about his health and medical history, a consent to treat, it's all very routine," she assured.

"I can't believe that my brother might be fuckin' dying and ye want me ta do fuckin' _paperwork_." He caught the cagey glance the nurse shot over her shoulder, toward where a uniformed security guard stood, and took a deep breath, trying to reign in his emotions.

"I'm sorry," he acquiesced, holding up his hands, "it's not yer fault, I know. I'm just . . ."

Her smile was a little more tentative this time, but it still managed to be compassionate. "I understand, but I still need you to do that paperwork for me."

Through monumental effort, Connor got a thank-you past the blockage in his throat, turning his back on the nurse and making his way over to the desk she had indicated.

How could he not have known?

Leaning over the desk and picking up a pen with wooden fingers, Connor turned his attention to the first form.

"Past Medical History," he read.

_Broken leg when we were kids, a fractured collarbone, two gunshots, a shattered wrist and thumb, broken ribs, collapsed lung, a nasty infection after being cut with some drug dealer's butterfly knife, Christ only knows how many blows to the head . . . _

"None." He wrote on the form.

"Allergies," _Penicillin and shellfish_. No, wait, he paused, those were his. Murphy was allergic to that painkiller, what was it called? Donatol.

The form began to blur, the words running together and becoming meaningless, awash in the flood of helplessness as it returned. It wasn't right that he was standing here filling out worthless forms; he _needed_ to be with his brother.

"Connor?" The voice was familiar, making Connor's head snap up from the question he was trying to answer and he sucked in a surprised breath seeing who had spoken.

She was a little slimmer than the last time he had seen her, and her hair was long again, pulled back and secured with a pencil. Reaching out, she laid a warm hand on his arm, her dark eyes wide and concerned.

"Connor?" she repeated, disbelievingly, "what are you doing here?"

Connor shut his eyes tightly, running a shaking hand through his hair, "'Llo, Danae," he whispered hearing his voice break.

o()o

"_Mijo_," Arturo's voice was smooth and pleasant, holding no trace of the anger Esteban had seen yesterday, as he lightly slapped the teenager's bare foot with a rolled newspaper, "I would like you to come with me today."

Obediently, Esteban closed the book he had been reading and got to his feet, looking around absently for his shoes, "Where are we going?"

"We have a memorial to attend."

Esteban frowned at his _tio's _words, taking in Arturo's meticulous black suit. "Whose?" he asked, concerned.

In response, Arturo held up the newspaper, tapping his finger against an article there. A quick glance at the blurb told Esteban that it was for a local woman and child who had been missing since their home burned down and now were presumed dead.

The names listed had been unfamiliar and Esteban was certain that if they had been of any importance at all, more of the _Sacerdotes_ would be attending. "What do they matter to us?"

Arturo turned a sharp look his way and Esteban cringed at the dissatisfaction he saw in his _tio_'s eyes. "I mean, it just seems strange to go to the memorial of strangers." He amended hastily, reaching for a dress shirt that was haphazardly tossed over his desk and pulling it on.

"They are not strangers, Esteban." said Arturo, turning to leave the room and motioning for the teen to follow, "they are a woman and a child who died because of our _familia, _and we must pay our respects to them."

Esteban didn't understand. The _Sacerdotes_ were the end of many people's lives, what made these two so different from the rest?

The question earned a small smile from Arturo, "This is a tradition, _mijo_, one that I inherited from the first _jefe _of the _Sacerdotes de la Calle._ I hope that when you assume the position, you will continue it also. "

It was no secret that he was being groomed to someday take over the _Sacerdotes _from his adopted father, overthrowing many who were older and more experienced, but hearing the words aloud still surprised Esteban.

Nodding, he shielded his eyes as he followed Arturo out of the foyer and into the bright morning sun. Beyond him, a sleek black Rolls Royce, one of his _tio's _favorite possessions, waited. Esteban slid into the seat beside his _tio_, inhaling the smell of the leather interior; he loved the vehicle almost as much as Arturo did.

"Do you do this often?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"You will come to learn," Arturo said, smiling slightly as the engine purred to life, "that things such as this are important not only because it is respectful, but because it is necessary to further the name of our _familia._"

"What do you mean?"

"Their deaths are very tragic, the child especially so, but they will also serve as a warning to others who would interfere with our business."

Surprised, Esteban blinked, gaping, and Arturo shot him a sideways glance, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Family before all else, you know that," he chided gently. "Ah, here we are."

They kept to the back of the memorial, unspeaking but not unnoticed, listening to the service.

Finally, the preacher ended the last prayer and informed the group of mourners that it was time to approach the grave and pay last respects to the deceased.

From the corner of his eye, Esteban watched as his _tio_ raised his head, the only movement the older man had made since arriving at the cemetery, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The effect was chilling and it took effort for Esteban not to recoil, for the firs time in his life, seeing the man beside him as something other than a businessman and father figure.

Without a word, Arturo cut a path through the swath of people at the gravesite, Esteban at his side. The quiet, grieving, murmurs fell silent as they passed by, mourners backing away from the man and teenager as though they were poisonous.

The grave was littered with pictures and flowers and small toys, dozens of tiny reminders and mementos from dozens of people whose lives the dead mother and child had touched.

From one of the inner pockets of his jacket, Arturo produced a small rosary. The beads sparkled in the bright afternoon sunlight, both a symbol of respect and a threat, as he slipped it around a framed picture of the dead mother and child. Esteban kept his head bowed, murmuring a prayer for woman and infant each.

"Perhaps" Arturo murmured after concluding a prayer of his own, his voice low enough for Esteban's ears only, "you would like to drive on the way back? A little practice for your driver's license."

Esteban fought the urge to grin, is earlier unease melting away, "_Si,_" he whispered, trying not to sound too eager and failing.

"Good, shall we go then?"

Nodding, Esteban raised his eyes to the memorial for the first time, unable to stop the gasp that exploded from him.

Behind the rosary Arturo had hung, two pairs of clear gray eyes sparkled at him, the mother and baby in the picture forever laughing at some private joke.

"This is a mistake," he murmured quietly, earning a frown from his _tio_.

"What?"

"This is a mistake," Esteban repeated, staring, transfixed at the photograph. He could hear the woman's voice in his thoughts, speaking clearly as she opened her arms for her crying daughter.

_"Oh, baby,"_ she had said with a smile, _"You're okay."_

"What are you talking about?" Arturo inquired, brows furrowing. "If this is a _broma,_ Esteban, now is neither the time nor place."

Esteban shook his head, this was no joke, "_Tio, _they aren't dead."

o()o


	22. Chapter 22

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Waiting Game just got it's 20,000th hit. Could you guys out there in PCLand get any cooler? I'm incredibly lucky to have such amazing readers and I know it. Thank you guys, so very much!  
__**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Curly Wurlys are woven chocolate-covered caramel cords that were immensely popular in the UK but were dubbed 'immoral' and banned in Ireland until 1979; the guys would have been 6 when the ban was lifted. _

o(22)o

"He's here." Connor's head snapped up at Danae's words, stiff fingers flexing over the rosary he held.

They had been waiting for over an hour, side-by-side, barely speaking, neither knowing what to say. He could feel Danae's need to talk pressing on him like a giant weight, but the dark-haired woman kept silent. Despite her almost palpable distress, Danae's presence was a balm for Connor's own grief and worry. She had asked no questions and made no judgments; she had simply taken his hand in both of hers, gently encouraging his vacillating prayers.

Now, he held his breath, watching as two nurses carted his still-sleeping twin into the recovery room, an IV pole hung with several different bags in tow.

Murphy was almost as pale as the sheets and his dark hair was a startling contrast to the pallor of his skin. Through the thin blanket, Connor could clearly see just how much weight his twin had lost and felt another pang of guilt. How could he not have noticed these things?

"How is he?" Connor got to his feet with a grimace, his leg protesting the long stretch of time spent in the hospital chair.

"We've got him on IV antibiotics to safeguard against sepsis and the doctor wants to keep him here for a few days . . ."

"I don't care about any of that," he said, his tone sharper than he hand intended, "I just need ta know how he is, please," he added a little more gently.

"The surgery went great, hon," one nurse reassured, offering him an upbeat smile, "one of the best I've seen. He should be awake anytime now."

Reaching out, Connor's first instinct was to take his brother's hand, simultaneously giving and seeking comfort as he had done his entire life. But Murphy looked so fragile, so _sick_ yet, that he hesitated, afraid that he would somehow make his twin worse.

"Go ahead, it's okay," the nurse assured, giving him a firm pat on the back before nodding to her partner and leading them both out of the room.

Murphy's normally warm hand was chilled, and the IV taped to the back of it made Connor wince, but he rubbed his thumb over his brother's calloused knuckles offering a bittersweet prayer of thanks for Murphy's life.

Pale fingers flexed over his and Murphy's eyelids fluttered. _Come on, Murph,_ he encouraged silently before speaking aloud, "Hey, I think he's coming to."

Met only with silence, Connor glanced over his shoulder at Danae. She hadn't moved other than to stand, cupping her elbows, and the naked longing was blatant across her features.

Feeling a stab of sympathy for her, Connor gestured toward his brother. "C'mon and hold his hand, I think he'd like ye ta be the first thing he sees," he said.

Danae shook her head, swallowing hard, her actions at odds with the look in her eyes.

"Why not?"

Coming to stand beside him, she pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. Leaning over the bedrail, she began to echo the action for his twin, but halted abruptly biting her lip and turning her head away. "Neither one of us need that heartache."

"So ye're just goin' ta fuckin' keep away then?" he couldn't keep the frustration from coloring his tone. This was a perfect chance for them both to be happy again, she was filling in at this hospital for a bit, Murphy was _right fucking there_, it was ideal.

Sniffling slightly, Danae nodded, blinking back tears, and Connor wondered if she even realized that she was stroking her thumb across the metal railing of the bed as though it were Murphy's skin.

She began to move away, but Murphy's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist as he muttered something unintelligible.

Eyes wide and wounded, she placed her hand over his, gently unprying the fingers that were wrapped around her wrist. Murphy's eyes were still closed, still under the pull of the anesthesia as he continued to murmur.

Connor knew that Danae couldn't understand what his twin was saying, but he picked up the soft, slurred, German easily.

_I miss you so much, I love you, should've said it before, I'm sorry, I love you . . . _

Finally freeing her wrist, Danae gave Murphy's fingers a gentle squeeze, tears welling in her eyes. "He won't remember this when he actually wakes up," she said giving him a meaningful look, "I'm trusting you, Connor, please, don't make this harder than it already is."

Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Connor nodded, fighting to keep his aggravation in check. Why did she have to be so fucking stubborn?

With a final, hesitant, kiss to Murphy's forehead, Danae was gone, her footsteps echoing through the tiled hallway, and Connor knew that she wouldn't be back.

Readjusting his grip on his brother's hand, he sighed deeply, waiting for his twin to wake up.

o()o

It was like the flip of a switch.

One moment, Murphy was swathed in peaceful darkness and the next moment he was sore, nauseated, and in the middle of a sentence. Blinking, he glanced around, taking in the hospital room and the sight of Connor, one hand firmly grasping his, the other clutching his rosary.

There was something about the unconscious curve of his brother's fingers around the wooden crucifix; Murphy frowned at it.

"That sick?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes, wincing as the motion tugged at the IV stuck in his hand.

Connor nodded. "Ye were, aye, they took out yer appendix."

Blinking, he ran a hand over his lower belly, feeling the gauze bandage there. "They took it out? _Out_, out?"

"The nurse said that it got infected and fuckin' exploded inside o' ye, t'is probably in a jar in some crazy fuckin' doctor's laboratory by now."

"Christ."

"T'was most likely from all the shite ye eat."

"Oh, and ye're Mr. Health food now?"

Connor snorted, "I'm not the one that made himself sick on Curly Wurlys."

"I was fuckin' eight!" Murphy protested, taking a weak swipe at his twin.

"Ye fuckin' ate thirty-two of them!" Connor countered, "if that isn't enough ta rot yer organs, I don't know what fuckin' is."

"This comin' from the self-proclaimed Grand Poobah of Twinkies." Murphy retorted, grinning at the memory of the half-bet, half-dare.

Connor had managed to get four full boxes of the unique American snack food down before giving up, winning $20 from their new friend, Rocco, who had only managed to eat a paltry nine before turning an unhealthy shade of green.

'They were fuckin' novel, all right?" Now it was Connor's turn to protest, and Murphy laughed, wincing.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the twinge to pass, willing slow breaths into his lungs.

"How're ye feelin'?" the question came from across the room and Murphy knew, without looking, that his twin was pacing slowly, working out the ache in his leg.

"Better than I have all fuckin' week," he replied, "how long was I out?"

"I got home a little after eight this mornin', it's a little after one now, so about five hours."

"Home?"

Connor cleared his throat and shuffled his feet slightly, a surefire sign that he was uncomfortable, "From Maire's," he said quietly.

"From . . . _Oh,_" Murphy tried to bite back the smile tugging at his lips, but it persevered, turning into a grin, "so here I was, aknockin' at death's door and ye were upstairs foolin' around with the neighbor girl? Some brother ye are."

"T'wasn't like that!" Connor spluttered and Murphy laughed, the action sending a sharp spike of pain through his belly.

"Ow, fuck," he muttered, bringing his hand to the bandage, fidgeting with an edge of the medical tape through the thin hospital gown as he waited for the pain to abate.

Pacing gingerly back to the bed and reaching over the railing, Connor swatted at his hand. "Leave it alone."

With an affronted look, Murphy rapped the top of Connor's hand, deftly striking the spot that would numb his brother's fingers.

"Ow, ye fuck!" Connor cried, shaking his now deadened hand, "ye're supposed ta be fuckin' sick, not a fuckin' pain in the arse."

"I can be both," he replied with a grin. "Help me up now, I need a slash and a smoke."

Connor shook his head adamantly, "Ye shouldn't get out of bed yet."

Ignoring his brother, Murphy pushed himself up, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Lend me an arm here, Conn."

"Murph . . ."

"It's either this, or I piss on yer shoes."

The threat worked, probably because he'd made good on it before. "Ye're fuckin' half a bubble off o' true, is what ye are," Connor grumbled, allowing Murphy to steady himself on his arm, holding onto the IV stand with the other.

He wobbled for a moment, his head swimming from the change in position, gingerly testing the pull of stitches just inside his right hip, and then slowly began to make his way toward the bathroom, leaning heavily on his twin.

Ye're lucky," Connor said as they walked. His brother's expression was meticulously somber, but Murphy could see the mischief sparkling in his eyes.

"And why is that?"

"_I_ didn't get those deadly paper shoes when I was in the hospital."

"Guess they like me more than ye," he chuckled, bracing himself against the tiled wall of the bathroom and turning his back on his twin. "It stands ta reason though; I am the good one after all"

"Fuck that," Connor huffed, "everybody knows I'm the good one. Ma even said so."

"That time doesn't count," Murphy said with absolute certainty, flushing the loo and shuffling out of the bathroom, he found himself leaning on his brother for support, suddenly exhausted. The cigarette would have to wait.

"I think that _'thank Christ at least one o' ye little bastards is goin' ta heaven'_ counts just fine," said Connor, carefully guiding him back toward the bed.

"Good thing I'm not askin' ye then isn't it?"

"Ye're just mad 'cause she didn't say it about you."

Lying back against the pillows, Murphy sighed heavily, "I think my get up and go fuckin' got up and went."

Connor chuckled, "Then go ta sleep."

Nodding groggily, his eyes already slipping closed, Murphy felt his brother's touch, ruffling his hair. Reaching up, he took Connor's hand in his own, squeezing his brother's fingers gently.

"Stay with me?" he asked.

"Don't be a fuckin' retard," Connor scoffed, "ye know I will."

"Hey, Conn," Murphy could hear his words slur as the peaceful heaviness took him over.

"Aren't ye asleep yet? What?"

"Love ye, bro."

After a moment of silence, Connor spoke, his voice not quite steady, his hand tightening around his now sleeping brother's, "Love ye too Murph.

o()o


	23. Chapter 23

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Playing Gaa is an Irish term for Gaelic football (similar to American soccer) the term comes from the Gaelic Athletics Association. Also, my posting schedule is undergoing a bit of a change, full details are in my profile.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **The phrase Murphy uses, 'I will in me ring', is an Irish term that pretty much means 'absolutely not'._

o(23)o

"Come on baby," Maire said, holding her hand out for her daughter and grabbing the overstuffed duffel from where it sat on the couch, "let's go get our guys."

"Kree?"

"Connor," she corrected, "and Murphy too."

"Kree," Sasha insisted slipping her hand into her Mamma's with a giggle.

Laughing Maire shook her head, allowing her daughter to win this round. At the moment, as long as Sasha wasn't shouting 'No!' at the top of her lungs, Maire was content.

She had just gotten off of the phone with Connor and received the happy news that, after almost a week in the hospital, Murphy was finally going to be released later that afternoon.

The dark-haired MacManus was still weak and, as Connor put it, 'wouldn't be playing Gaa any time soon, not that he ever could play footie to begin with', but the danger of infection had passed and the doctor had deemed him well enough to return home.

To celebrate they had invited Maire and Sasha out to supper, both brothers in dire need of something that wasn't hospital food, and Maire was more than happy to accept, surprised at how much she had missed their company.

Her apartment had seemed unnaturally silent without the normal sounds of their day-to-day life filtering up through her heating duct. The hum of their conversations, laughter, arguments and scuffles had given her a sense of place, a comforting reminder that she was no longer alone in the world.

Slowly, she made her way down the stairwell, keeping pace with her daughter as Sasha carefully navigated the stairs, all of the little girl's focus directed toward each step she took.

Reaching the next floor, Maire was shocked to see two men pounding on Connor and Murphy's front door. The first man was tall and thin, his hawkish features contorted in a scowl. His suit was perfectly tailored and pressed, in fact everything about him screamed _meticulous_. The other man in comparison was squat, rumpled and . . . slightly familiar. He turned to look toward where she was standing the instant Maire recognized him.

Detective Dollapoppaskalious.

They had found her.

With a gasp, Maire swept Sasha into her arms, clapping a hand over the protesting baby's mouth and bolting down the remaining stairs toward the building's exit.

She couldn't let them know that she was still alive. If the police found out where she was, the men that had tried to kill her would surely discover it as well, and they would finish what they had started.

And when they were done with her . . .

She was shaking, her breath coming in frantic little hitches as much from fear as from exertion as she burst out of the apartment complex. The bright afternoon sun hit her and she halted, paralyzed as much by indecision as by the startling number of people that were out and about. Her chest constricted with a nauseating lurch and a wave of pins and needles swept across her arms and legs.

_She was going to die._

_Not here, not now. _Shaking her head, fiercely, Maire forced the thought away. She was only going to die if she was brainless enough to have an anxiety attack in the middle of the street and draw attention to herself.

Amazingly enough, the tactic worked.

When there were no beckoning shouts and no police officers following her, Maire allowed herself to relax for a brief moment. It had been shadowy in the stairwell and they had been a good distance away. Even if they had seen her, it wasn't likely that the detectives had actually _recognized_ her.

Still, rather than tempt fate, she turned away from the building, walking hastily toward the next bus stop, forgoing her normal one that was only a block away. Gently, she rubbed circles across Sasha's back, trying to calm the distraught baby. Her daughter's face was tearstained and bright red from her angry struggles against her Mamma's retraining embrace and silencing hand.

"I know baby," she soothed, "I know."

By the time the bus came to pick them up, Sasha was very nearly quiet, still hiccoughing occasionally through her sniffles. A sucker, filched from the Emergency Room, and the experience was as good as forgotten as far as the baby was concerned.

They were walking through the doors of the Inpatient Wing before Maire stopped trembling, however, and she was certain that she would be remembering the event for a very, very, long time.

Finally releasing Sasha, taking her hand and leading her through the labyrinth of water-colored hallways, Maire was so focused on calming herself that she didn't notice the dark-haired woman standing outside the doorway until she collided with her, sending them both reeling.

"I'm so sorry," Maire gasped.

The woman shook her head and backed away from both Maire and the door to Murphy's room, "No _I'm_ sorry," she stammered, holding up her hands, "I didn't mean –"

"Bee!" Sasha announced picking up a pencil on the floor in her chubby fist and offering it to the woman. "Bee!"

"Thank you," The woman gave Sasha a tentative smile and expertly pulled her hair back, taking the pencil and using it to secure the bun.

"Are you okay?" Maire asked, picking Sasha up again.

"I'm fine. I just . . . I mean, I must have the wrong room." The words were too quick, too soft, and the woman was retreating, her expression managing to be both fearful and a little guilty.

Having kids, Maire instinctively knew that it was the look of someone who had been caught where they weren't supposed to be, but the woman was already hurrying away.

"Bonk!" Sasha stated with a giggle, making her smile.

"Yeah, Mamma bonked into that lady, didn't she?"

"Bonk!" Sasha squealed, "Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!"

Laughing, Maire nudged the door open, stepping inside. She was met with a tangle of limbs, and a myriad of curses, catching the brothers mid-scuffle

The sight of them both sent a flood of warmth through Maire. Their love was so solid, their protectiveness for one another so steadfast and obdurate, that maybe if she stayed with them long enough, she could be safe too.

"Somebody order a prison break?" she asked, hefting the bag that was slung across her neck.

"Kree!" Sasha squealed happily, wriggling at the sight of her friend.

"_Galya_!" Connor replied just as enthusiastically. He offered Maire a broad wink and then shot a look down at his twin, raising his fist meaningfully, "Say it."

"In me fuckin' ring, I will." Murphy protested, before offering Maire a wide smile, "'Llo, Maire."

Connor's grip tightened and Murphy winced, struggling. Maire noticed that the pinched, pained expression was gone from his face and his pale skin actually had a little color. Despite being stuck in the crook of his brother's arm, he looked better than he had in weeks.

"Say it," Connor demanded, scrubbing his knuckles roughly over the top of his twin's head.

"Ow! Ye fuck! Leave off already!"

"Not until ye fuckin' say it."

"I guess well be here for-fuckin'-ever then, won't we?" Murphy's hand was quick as lightning, flashing out and giving Connor a vicious pinch on the vulnerable underside of his arm. With a yelp, Connor let him go; stepping away and rubbing the spot .

"Are you ready to get out of here?" Maire asked, interrupting the colorful array of expletives that Connor was directing toward his brother.

"Aye," Murphy said, grinning, "I don't think I could handle another fuckin' cup o' Jell-o."

"Ew," she sympathized. Of all the things in the world that she loved to eat, Jell-o was certainly _not_ on the list.

"Ye think that's gross," Connor interjected, "ye should have seen the tube they had in him ta keep the infection from getting loose . . ."

His words were severed by a rap on the top of his head, Murphy using his IV pole as a weapon and shaking his own head in disgust, "Christ, they don't need ta hear that shite, Conn."

Connor thumped his brother once more across the head and quickly dodged the IV pole as it swung at him again, holding out his arms for mother and daughter both.

"Thanks for comin', darlin."

Sasha practically leapt out of Maire's arms, catapulting her small body into Connor's waiting embrace, denying Maire her hug.

"Mah!" the baby announced, pointing at Maire, then to the door giggling, "Bonk!"

Connor chuckled, "Did ye now?" he asked, turning sparkling eyes to Maire.

"It was the funniest thing. There was this woman standing outside the door and . . . what's wrong?"

All of the mirth had drained from Connor's face, and Maire could see something injured and haunted behind his eyes before his smile resurfaced.

"Nothing's wrong," he assured, "her . . . husband . . . is dyin' in the room down the hall."

Murphy lifted an eyebrow at his brother, and Connor dismissed him with a shrug. "She gets turned around sometimes."

_And the winner of the best lie goes to . . ._ Maire thought with a frown, but Connor was already moving on, swinging Sasha around in circles, chuckling at the baby's delighted screams.

A glance at Murphy showed that he was thinking the same thing, his eyes narrowed as he watched his brother carefully.

"Looks like someone's ready to get out of here." A perky-looking nurse with copper-colored hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose stood in the doorway, a clipboard in her hand. She smiled widely at Murphy, gesturing toward him with a pen. "How about we get this paperwork done and send you on your way?"

"Amen ta that." The brothers' words were in perfect unison, and Maire smiled, pleased that her guys were finally coming home.

Six signatures and twenty-five discharge questions later, Murphy, Connor, Maire and Sasha were all on their way out to the hospital parking lot, where the MacManus' battered LTD dutifully waited.

The day was warm and clear and Maire turned her face toward the sun smiling; she could almost smell summer on the wind. Martin's birthday was just around the corner.

The thought of her son sent a pang through Maire and she smiled softly, pressing a kiss against the top of Sasha's head. Bittersweet tears welled in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away thinking about her little boy, her baby.

Her masterpiece.

While his absence still hurt, aching like some long-healed wound, she had worked hard to fill the gaping hole that he had left behind, packing it with bright memories. Maire had a stockpile of better times to draw comfort and strength from; helping her do what she had done her entire life. Carry on.

As they walked, Connor slipped his hand into hers, giving her fingers a firm squeeze, and tossing an affectionate look over his shoulder, before walking ahead, tugging the keys from his jeans pocket.

Blushing, Maire looked away, only to catch Murphy's eyes. His glance flickered from her, to where their joined hands had been, to his twin's retreating back, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a slight smile.

Pausing, Murphy considered her for a minute, then suddenly grabbed her and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. He released her and, whistling softly, ambled after his brother toward the car.

After a stunned beat, Maire blinked, shook her head slightly and followed after him.

The ride to the restaraunt was filled with good-natured arguing about radio stations and the shortest route to take. Sitting in the back seat, Sasha napping quietly against her shoulder, Maire basked in the warmth they seemed to radiate, pleased to have her makeshift family back.

She was happier here than she could ever remember having been before. She had found a place among these two amazing men, they had given her somewhere to belong.

With them, she was home.

As if in response to her thoughts, Connor reached back around his seat, still carefully navigating the car through mid-afternoon traffic, and squeezed her knee, all the while complaining about Murphy's choice in music.

Smiling, she brushed her fingers against Connor's and met his eyes in the rearview mirror, exchanging a glance that spoke more than words ever could. Eventually, his hand left her knee, moving to swat at his brother as Murphy changed the dial to yet another radio station. Maire chuckled at them, ghosting another kiss across the top of Sasha's head as the car pulled to a stop in front of a brightly Mexican restaraunt, a large plaster cactus gracing it's door.

She was home.

o()o


	24. Chapter 24

o()o

_**Author's Note: **She came, she saw, she wrote like crazy! Thanks to Archerlove and Aranatta for making this beta then ever (Ha!) and thanks to all you wonderful readers out there in PCLand for your patience and encouragement. You guys rock!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **The Irish alphabet has only 18 letters. J, K, Q, V, W, X, Y and Z are not used._

o(24)o

Arturo Mendoza sat in silence, examining the chessboard before him thoughtfully, only half of his attention on the game.

He moved a crystalline bishop across the board with a sigh, then he leaned back in the leather chair, steepling his fingers, eyes still on the chess game.

All around him was the evidence of his success in the _Estados Unidos_. His fine furniture, his expensive artworks, even his beautiful home, while nothing like his mansion in Columbia, was a testament to the growing foothold he was establishing. But now as he glanced around the room, it seemed that for every triumph, there was a failure to accompany it. At the moment, one failure in particular stood out to him.

Mrs. Maire Kennsett.

There were few things he considered as dangerous as an eyewitness outside of his control. And yet the woman remained exactly that, alive and well despite his best efforts.

He moved another piece, countering his first move with a soundless curse. This was entirely the lawyer's fault, to be seen handling the more _unpleasant_ aspects of business was one thing, but to be photographed? It was unacceptable. He had been arrogant and careless and now Arturo was left to see to the aftermath.

Arturo had tried to rectify Ford's reckless behavior, dismissing the legal representative and sending his own men to the woman's home with the command of _cualesquiera acciones necesarias, _by whatever means necessary.

His punishment for their failure would not be a lenient one.

A dark knight slid across the frosted glass chessboard, facing off with its translucent counterpart. Arturo regarded the pieces for a moment, amused by the symbolism he found there. As if this entire fiasco hadn't been bad enough to begin with.

MacManus, Connor and Murphy. Since their last meeting, Arturo had spent a considerable amount of time learning all he could about the notorious Saints of South Boston. Unfortunately most of what he had come across was more myth than fact, the media raising these two men on a pedestal high enough to rival their pseudonym.

For a short time he had allowed himself to hope that, while thwarted, the warning he had used the young woman from the hospital to send last fall would be enough to dissuade the vigilantes from the _Sacerdotes_. But when his men, once again, began to show up dead, shiny pennies placed in their eyes and their arms lovingly crossed, Arturo knew that his hope had been in vain.

A queen joined the pair of knights on the chessboard, and Arturo paused at the trio mid-move, a memory niggling along the edges of his mind, a newspaper article, hastily torn from its page and tucked away.

He had diligently continued the work that the F.B.I. had begun, collecting clippings from various newspapers and adding them to the ever-growing file that had been stolen from the agents briefcase in the previous months, the one neatly labeled _MacManus, Connor/ Murphy. _

It hadn't been his men involved, but thinking back the names had been familiar. Completing the move, his queen taking the clear-crystal knight, Arturo smiled slightly as the names found a place in his memory. They had been the lawyer's men.

Perhaps _Señor_ Ford had tried to rectify the situation himself? Arturo's smile turned into a chuckle. Two of the lawyer's men killed by the Saints outside of Mrs. Maire Kensett's home shortly before his own men had arrived. It was perfect.

Another crystalline piece slid across the board, followed by another and another, dual strategies forming. He would kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. All he needed was a way to cage them.

"Ramiro!" he called, unsurprised when the young man appeared instantly at his doorway.

"_Si Señor?_"

"I need you to start a rumor for me."

Ramiro furrowed a thick brow, "A rumor, _Señor_?"

"_Si. _I need you to spread the word that an _envío_ of Absolution is coming. Make it known that it will be a large shipment and we will begin distribution immediately."

Reaching, Arturo wrote briefly on a piece of paper and handed it to the other man. "This is the date and time that I want you to tell."

"But, there is no shipment coming . . ."

"Exactly. "

"_Señor. . ._" Ramiro tried again to protest, but Arturo held up a silencing hand, frowning at the younger man.

"No more questions, Ramiro, do as I tell you. Go."

Ramiro gave a brief nod and was gone, closing the door silently as he left. Turning his attention back to the chessboard, a small chuckle escaped Arturo.

He had the trail, the trap and the lure. All that was left to do now was wait.

He slid one last piece across the board ending a perfect game.

_Checkmate_.

o()o

One of the most beneficial things about living in a shite apartment complex, Connor reflected, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the graffiti-covered walls and listened to the drug dealers down the hall, was that there was never any shortage of sin.

Unshaven, hungover, in torn jeans and a t-shirt that may or may not have been clean, he was as much a part of the apartment building as the gummy floor and grimy windows. The people passed him by without a second glance, putting no more stock in his presence than they would the rest of the urban landscape.

Just the way he liked it.

All of the pushers and junkies in the development had been conferring for the better part of the morning, feeling no need for discretion. They all knew, just as Connor did, that the inhabitants were either terrorized into silence or just as dishonest as themselves. It was a Mecca of corruption, one that desperately needed a God-given cleansing in Connor's opinion, but there were more important things happening at the moment.

A set of excited voices rose, echoing throughout the hallway, and Connor caught the word he had been hearing all morning. The reason he was out there now.

Absolution.

After spending a good bit of the morning eavesdropping, he already had the place, and Connor knew if he waited long enough, the time of the shipment would come to him as well.

_And where there was Absolution_, he thought, smirking around the filtered end of his cigarette, _there were Street Priests_

Exhaling a stream of smoke, he ran his hands through his already disheveled hair, debating on going back inside for a moment to have a piss and check on Murphy.

His twin's boundless energy was already starting to resurface, despite his blatant disregard of the doctor's orders to avoid smoking and alcohol. It wouldn't be long before Murphy was good as new and the Saints were ready to retake their calling.

"Kree!" A happy squeal made him start, looking to see Sasha running toward him, her arms outstretched.

Quickly setting his cigarette down on the floor, Connor opened his arms, scooping the exuberant baby up and smiling at her delighted laughter.

"Hi!" Sasha announced, her chubby fingers instantly going to the beads of his rosary.

"Mornin', _Galya,_" he replied with a chuckle, "Where's yer ma?"

A soft laugh answered his question and Connor looked up from the baby to see Maire leaning in the stairwell, watching them both with a broad smile. The sight of her made Connor stand up straight, abandoning the hungover slouch he had adopted for most of the morning, and run his free hand over his hair.

Maire shook her head, her smile widening, lighting her eyes and Connor felt his heart kick up a notch.

He loved that smile.

It wasn't the wistful, sad, smile that he saw so often; this was like a beam of sunlight, genuine and happy. He wished he could see that smile more.

"Mornin' darlin'," he greeted, "What are ye up to so early?"

She arched an eyebrow, "It's noon."

"Newn!" Sasha agreed.

"Christ, I have the both 'o ye against me now." he groaned, his fingers searching for the ticklish spot he knew was under Sasha's ribs. He was rewarded with an ear-splitting squeal followed by uproarious giggles as he found the spot.

Sasha finally managed to wriggle free, running over to where Maire stood. "Get me!" She announced, grinning.

"He got you big time, baby." Maire agreed, taking her daughter's hand.

"Bye!" Sasha said, tugging. "Sasa bye!"

Taking Sasha's cue, Maire stepped out of the stairwell, "We're headed to the park," she explained.

"Have a good time then," he said, slipping his hand into her free one and squeezing.

"See you later." Her kiss was unexpected, infusing him with warmth, and then Sasha was there, pulling Maire down the hall.

"Okay," Maire laughed, pressing one last kiss against his cheek, "we're going, we're going."

Picking up his cigarette, and taking a thoughtful inhale; Connor watched them disappear down to the next level of the building before he opened his front door and slipped inside.

Murphy was still sprawled out across his mattress, snoring softly, his face unlined and peaceful. Connor knelt beside his own bed, reaching under and tugging out his black duffel bag.

His twin stirred, mashing a hand against his face, "Did ye get what we were lookin' for?" he asked into his pillow.

"Aye," Connor said slowly, staring down at the bag in front of him, "shipment's comin' in on the old docks as far as I can tell. Next Wednesday seems ta be the big day."

Murphy grunted his satisfaction with the information before reburying his head beneath the pillows, slipping easily back to sleep.

Connor gave his twin an unhappy look, and then turned his attention back to the bag in front of him. He paused for a moment, his fingers hovering just over the zipper, trying to fight the sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Maire's kiss was still warm on his lips and her scent still was strong in his nose. Part of him wanted to stuff the bag back under the bed, forget the conversations he had been listening to all morning and join her and Sasha at the park.

It was that same part of him who wanted to be merely a man, someone whose life wasn't steeped in secrets. Someone who could have a life with the woman he loved.

But he couldn't.

Wrenching the bag open, he allowed the odor of gun oil, sweat, and blood to overtake the more subtle scent of jasmine.

He tugged a gun out of the duffel frowning as he did, the weapon was heavy in his hands, it's familiar weight feeling more like a burden than the comfort he was used to. His fingers moved automatically, checking the sights and barrel with the ease of long-formed habit.

It was a sort of ritual, one that had always been calming for Connor, but now as he went through the motions, each action made him feel a little more hollow inside. Staring past the gun in his hands, at the arsenal displayed before of him, Connor finally realized with an abject kind of horror, that he didn't _want _this anymore.

The idea was blasphemous, unthinkable. He and Murphy had been chosen to do God's will, and they had been handpicked to tip the scales between good and evil. To simply decide to _not _do it anymore was as ludicrous as suddenly deciding to stop breathing.

Tossing the gun back in the bag with a muted curse, Connor buried his face in his hands and held his breath.

o()o


	25. Chapter 25

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Don't kill me::ducks rotten fruit and sharp objects:: Don't kill me!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **In the Boondock Saints movie, The word "fuck" and its derivatives are used a total of 246 times. At last count, GoC count was 322._

o(25)o

Murphy awoke with a start, eyes snapping open.

Something wasn't right. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew just the same. Propping himself up on an elbow he spied his brother hunched over the table, face hidden in his hands, shoulders shaking softly.

" Conn?"

"Fuck, I'm sorry Murph, did I wake ye?" Connor said, his voice muffled against his palms

Murphy eased to the edge of the bed and got to his feet, moving over to where his brother was sitting.

"Ye didn't." he said, placing a hand on the back of Connor's neck and squeezing gently. "What's goin' on?"

His twin looked up; revealing red-rimmed eyes, and then swiftly looked away. "Nothin', I'm fine."

Murphy raised an eyebrow, but remained quiet. Sometimes it took his brother a little time to warm up to the idea of talking about what was on his mind.

His twin ran a tense hand through his hair, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose, "What if it's never enough?" he said, his voice a ragged whisper, "where do we draw the line between doin' God's will and murder?"

Murphy froze. He didn't know what he'd been expecting to hear, but this definitely wasn't it. "Connor, what the fuck are ye talkin' about? The line is pretty fuckin' clear, if ye ask me, evil men, dead men."

"That's not what I meant. I mean . . . fuck!" Connor stood, shaking off his brother's touch and bracing both hands against the wall, his head down. "I don't fuckin' know how to say it!"

"Hey, okay," Murphy said, his tone softening, surprised by the outburst. "Just take a breath now."

His brother obeyed, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, "Fuck. I thought I had everything all figured out, but I don't. I don't want . . ." He took another breath, "I don't want to lose everything.

Murphy hesitated a moment, expecting him to continue, but Connor only closed his eyes and squeezed his temple with one hand "Connor, what the fuck are ye talkin' about?"

"I'm talkin' about Maire." Connor said, almost too softly for Murphy to hear.

"What?"

"I think I love her, Murph," he confessed, glancing quickly at Murphy and then back down at the floor. Her and Sasha both."

"Well of course ye do." Murphy said, nonplussed, "That's not really much of a revelation there, Conn."

Connor shook his head, turning to look fully at him. They were silent for several moments before he blew out a not-quite-steady breath.

"I'm not so sure we're doin' the right thing anymore."

His brother's words couldn't have struck Murphy any harder if they had been fists. He felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen. "What?"

"I want ta go back to the way things were, I want a life that doesn't revolve around killin'."

Murphy could only stare at his twin, Connor managing to do the almost impossible and leave him speechless.

"No," he finally managed to get the word past the anger and betrayal that were choking him. "No."

His brother looked at him sharply, brow furrowing, "Listen, I've given this a lot of thought and –"

"The fuck ye have!" Once the words started, Murphy found that he couldn't stop them. "Who the fuck are ye ta decide when we're done? The last time I checked ye aren't God."

"For Christ's sake, Murphy," Connor said, his voice rising, "I thought ye'd at least have the decency ta roll it around a little."

"Fuck you!" He spat, "Ye're off yer fuckin' nut if ye think I'm going ta be all right with this! What, did ye just wake up this mornin' and decide that ye were givin' up on everything we've been working toward for the last _three years_? That all of that work wasn't worth anythin'?"

"I just want a normal fuckin' life!"

"Well ye can't have a normal fuckin' life, Connor!" Murphy shouted, flinging his hands angrily in the air. He desperately needed something to hit. "We both knew that when we decided ta do this. It was a choice we both fuckin' made!"

"So what, now we're nothing but killers? What happened to not letting our lives revolve around this?"

"What happened sticking by your family?" Murphy shot back.

For the briefest of seconds, hurt flickered across his brother's face, then Connor's featured hardened, his eyes becoming disdainful. "Dry yer fuckin' arse. We aren't twelve anymore."

"No," Murphy shouted, giving his twin a vicious shove that sent him crashing backward into the table. Empty beer bottles and cans spun all directions. "We aren't. We're fuckin' men and we have a fuckin' calling. And ye've lost yer fuckin' mind if ye think that fallin' in love is goin' ta change that!"

"What would ye know about it?"

That was all it took, "I fuckin' know everything about it! I had it all and I gave it up for this fuckin' mission, I gave it up for _you_." he roared, landing a right cross to Connor's jaw. Fuck, that felt good.

Before he had a chance to really savor it, though, his own head snapped back with the force of a jarring reciprocal blow, sending him stumbling backward, his anger alone keeping him from losing his footing.

"Christ, ye're such a fuckin' retard!" Connor yelled, his hands fisted so tightly that his knuckles were bloodless and white, "Danae was fuckin' . . ."

The words stopped as though they had been severed, and Murphy saw his brother's eyes widen in the instant before Connor looked away, his hand falling to his side. It was a diminutive thing, but Murphy caught the meaning of it as only a twin could. As only _he_ could.

"What about Danae?" He asked, wiping at the blood that was dribbling down his chin.

"Nothing," Connor said, jaw clenched, "Drop it."

Murphy narrowed his eyes, his previously kinetic anger pooling into deadly calm, "Fuckin' what about her, Connor?"

Connor gingerly touched the side of his face, brushing over the bruise that Murphy could see forming there, and scowled. "I said, fuckin' drop it!"

"So help me God, if ye don't tell me . . ." His voice was low, but the warning therein was clear.

"Fine!" Connor exclaimed, gesturing crossly, "ye want ta know? It was Danae that Maire ran inta outside your door the day ye were released; she was there the whole fuckin' time. Are ye fuckin' happy now?"

"And when were ye goin' ta fuckin' tell me all o' this?" Murphy wavered for a minute between betrayed hurt and anger, staring at his twin.

"She didn't want ye ta know!"

"So ye _lied_ ta me? Ye fuckin' decided what was best and fuck everythin' else?"

"Fuck you. Ye didn't see the look on her face. It was breakin' her heart ta even look at ye."

Murphy erupted into motion, finally deciding that anger would be easier to deal with at the moment than betrayal . Swiping again at his split lip again, he began to pace, the long strides keeping him focused on something other than beating his twin into a bloody pulp. "It wasn't your decision to make!"

"T'was better than watchin' the two o' ye go through all that again!"

"Ye had no fuckin' right!" Murphy jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction.

"No fuckin' right ta what?" Ta respect Danae's wishes? Ta give ye the chance ta heal in peace?"

With an angry growl, Murphy grabbed Connor's shoulders, throwing his twin off balance and pinning him against the wall, "Ye had no right ta deny me the chance ta talk ta her!"

Fingers digging painfully into Murphy's arms, Connor reversed their positions, slamming him against the wall hard enough to dent the cheap plaster before releasing him and turning away. "Fuck this, I'm fuckin' out o' here."

"Great! Go!" Murphy shouted furiously, past caring what he said or how it might hurt, "There's no fuckin' room for lyin' cowards in God's work!"

The sound of the door slamming was the only rejoinder to his words

o()o

_"Will ye think of me from time ta time while I'm away?" _

_The ludicrousness of the question shook an unsteady laugh from her. _

_"Always." She whispered, "For the rest of my life, there won't be a day that goes by when I don't think of you." _

It was the little things that got Danae through her day.

Brushing her teeth, making tea, folding the laundry, the unimportant tasks kept her feet firmly on the ground preventing her from getting washed away in the memories of last autumn.

From drowning in memories of Murphy.

The people in her life had no idea how much she missed the brothers that had, very effectively, turned her life upside down.

They would never guess that she still wore one of Murphy's tee shirts to bed, having found it stuffed in a corner after he had left, and that she had cried when she realized that it no longer smelled like him.

Nobody would never know that he still haunted her dreams, leaving her to wake just before dawn, her tentatively healing heart laid open once again by thoughts of what might have been, but could never be.

Her friends had no idea that she dreaded going home. She had gotten so used to him being there, to _them_ being there, and her house still seemed lifeless and empty without them, even after all this time.

They had no clue that she still carefully practiced the German that Connor had been teaching her, no matter how crude the phrases were.

No one would ever guess that she was anything other than fine. She smiled just as warmly, laughed just as much, and was just as calm and levelheaded as ever.

But at the end of the night, when there was nothing left to do, when all the little things were finished, Danae was just as wounded and just as incomplete as the day they had gone, leaving her behind in the snow.

Now, she looked up from the vegetables she was cutting, startled by the sound of someone knocking on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she padded through rooms, flipping on lights as she went. Pulling open the door, she froze, certain that her heart had stopped too.

_Murphy. _

He looked like hell, a dark bruise spreading along one side of his jaw, blood crusting on his lips. His face was haggard and tense. His eyes were shadowed by dark circles and the unhappiness she there made Danae's chest tighten painfully.

"What's happened?" she whispered, almost afraid to form the words, fearful of the answer she would receive.

Murphy swallowed, jamming his hands in his pockets and staring down at his boots for a moment before meeting her eyes squarely.

"We need ta talk," he said.

o()o

"We need ta talk."

He had been leaning against her doorframe, waiting for her to get home from the park and the closed expression on his face sent a bolt of apprehension through Maire.

Nodding, she fumbled to door open and gestured him to enter.

"Have a seat." She said softly, easing her napping daughter, worn out from her adventures at the park, out of her arms and into the bed.

Connor shook his head. "T'is better if I don't." he said, not meeting her eyes.

"Okay," resisting the urge to fold her arms over her chest, Maire frowned at him, "What's going on?"

Staring down at his boots, he sighed heavily, "Listen, Maire, I'm sorry, but I can't see ye anymore."

His words were like a slap to the face, "What? Why?" It was halfway through the questions that she remembered to lower her voice, glancing over toward where Sasha slept

"It's . . " he began, then faltered, "it's complicated."

"You're serious, aren't you?" She studied him, the man she had grown to love replaced by a stranger. "Connor . . ."

"Don't do this," he glanced up at her, then quickly away, pressing his lips into a fine line, "just trust that I'm doin' what's best for the both o' ye."

_Not good enough._

Maire's temper ignited, sparked as much by Connor's infuriatingly vague answers as by her own heartache. "Look at me," she demanded, waiting until their eyes connected again, "what the hell is this all about?"

"I told ye, it's complicated."

"Screw that!"

"Damnit, Maire, don't make this any harder than his has ta be!" he snapped.

She stared at him, chest heaving, too incensed to respond. How dare he come into her home, discard her with no reason and then ask _her_ not to make it difficult?

"You bastard."

"You don't understand," the tendons in his neck stood out as he clenched his jaw, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Of course I don't understand! How could I possibly understand when all I get from you are secrets and lies?" She was fighting to keep her voice down, but gradually losing the battle.

"I don't think ye're one ta be passin' judgment about that," he shot back, eyes suddenly hard.

Like a balloon pushed too far, Maire's anger burst and tears flooded her eyes. She couldn't win. Every lie, every omission had been to protect him, and he could only throw it back in her face. "Get out of here." She whispered, turning away from him.

Behind her, Connor cursed softly and she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Maire,"

She jerked away form his touch as through she'd been burned. "_I said get out_!" she cried and across the room Sasha awoke and began to wail.

Going over to her daughter, Maire buried her face in Sasha's neck, jumping as her door slammed and Connor's sudden absence filled the room. From the far wall, one of Martin's pictures crashed to the unforgiving concrete floor, the frame shattering.

For a moment, mother and daughter were both silent, then Sasha whimpered and her cries began anew, drowning out the softer sound of Maire's own sobs.

o()o


	26. Chapter 26

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Well, guys, I think this is the shortest chapter I've ever written. Thanks, as always, to Archerlove for her tireless work making what I write readable, trust me guys, it's not an easy job!  
_**_Nifty Fact for the Day: _**Tá meathlaíocht éigin orm (_I'm feeling under the weather) so remember guys, reviews are better than _anraith sicín _(chicken soup.) _

o(26)o

Murphy awoke the next morning to the soothing sound of rainfall and the steady rhythm of Danae's breathing. He was comfortable and relaxed curled around the warmth of her body.

She was still fast asleep, her dark hair fanned over the pillow and his arm, her lips slightly parted. He brushed a tentative kiss against her temple, half afraid that this was another dream, taunting him with what he could never have. But then Danae hummed sleepily.

"Missed you," she murmured, snuggling a little closer to him and Murphy wrapped his free arm tightly around her, burying his face in her shoulder.

"Aye, I missed ye too, luv, so much."

They had spent the entire night talking. Well, to be perfectly honest, he had spent most of the night talking and she had spent most of the night listening to him.

They had started out in the doorway, the conversation awkward and halting, moving to the kitchen over endless cups of tea, to the couch and then finally to her bedroom.

He told her about the upcoming mission, Maire, and the fight with Connor, anything and everything else he could think of to talk to her about, relieved to finally get it all out in the open.

She had looked away when he told her he knew she had been in the hospital with him, her cheeks flushing. "I had to see you," she whispered.

It was then that Murphy had realized that Saint or no, mission or no, he had spent enough time alone. Connor's words echoed accusingly in his ears.

"So what, now we're nothing but killers? What happened to not letting our entire life revolve around this?"

"I can't leave the mission." He'd said, needing to hear it aloud.

Danae had nodded against his shoulder, sighing quietly. "I never thought you would."

"But that doesn't change how I feel about ye." he'd said softly, finally gathering his courage, "and I know that I can't be the man that ye deserve, but I love ye, and I'll do my best by ye."

She'd answered him by slipping her hand into his, squeezing gently, and pressing a warm kiss against his forehead. "We'll both do our best."

Now, as he slipped a little further into wakefulness, he realized that he was afflicted with the problem men tended to have upon waking and shifted slightly trying to relieve the pressure.

Danae made a quiet noise as she felt him move away, frowning. "Are you okay?" she asked sleepily.

Chuckling, Murphy debated on how to answer that question, finally opting to be a gentleman. "Aye, fine."

"Did we miss the sunrise?" It was such an innocent question, so typically Danae that Murphy felt his chest tighten. A throb of emotion so sweet it was painful coursed through him. Christ, he had missed her.

"No, luv. No sunrise today, 'tis raining out."

Smiling she burrowed further under the covers, drawing her knees up, "A good morning to stay in bed then."

He traced small, hesitant, circles across the soft fabric of her nightshirt, unsure where the boundaries between them lay, but needing to touch her just the same. "Aye."

"That feels good," she said softly, her words a little clearer, and he grinned, moving his hand to stroke her leg from ankle to thigh.

"Does it now?"

"Aye," she said, mimicking his accent, making him laugh as he continued to run a warm hand over the softness of her skin.

When he felt the first questioning touches of her fingertips across his bare chest he pushed her hand away, moving to caress a spot near her hip that made her gasp softly.

Slowly, Murphy explored her body, rediscovering all the secret places he had begun to think only existed in his memories. He was almost as fascinated with how peculiar his fair hands looked against her tanned skin, as he was by her reaction to his touch.

Brushing fingers across her lower back, he was startled when she jerked away making a noise that was half yelp and half giggle.

"Ticklish?" he asked, grinning wickedly.

Danae bit her lip on a smile, shaking her head.

"Liar," he said, tracing the spot again, chuckling at her frantic giggles.

Danae struggled in a tangle of limbs and sheets, breathless with laughter as he tortured her mercilessly. Murphy was certain that he'd never had so much fun until her fingers danced across his ribs, making him twitch as she found one of his own ticklish spots.

Pausing for a moment, she grinned before launching herself at him with a playful battle cry.

"Vixen!" he managed to gasp as the tables were quickly turned and he was the one being tortured.

Sliding a knee on either side of his hips, Danae's eyes widened as she discovered his current state. He heard her sharp intake of breath and froze, eyes wide, wondering how she would react.

His uncertainty was forgotten when she began to rock her hips gently against him her eyes becoming dark and liquid, a wordless invitation. The movement sent a shudder of need through him and his hands circled her waist, guiding her even as he freed himself from the confines of his jeans, his own thoughts turning serious.

She matched his rhythm easily and Murphy couldn't help but think that the cadence they created was perfectly matched to the whisper of the falling rain.

o()o

Rain began to patter on the Plexiglas roof of the bus stop and Connor glanced up at it absently before returning to his dark thoughts.

A dozen buses had come and gone since he'd been sitting there, countless cigarettes smoldering down to the filter between his fingertips, a half-empty bottle of some nameless whiskey between his legs.

He hadn't bothered to return to the apartment, too busy turning his brother's words over and over in his head to want to eat or to sleep.

We can't have a normal life. We have a calling; falling in love doesn't change that.

Murphy had been right, of course he had been. To be the vengeful, striking, hammer of God or to be in love: there had never been any choice, not for Da, not for Murphy, and not for him. Love had no place when you were waging God's war.

In the end, he had done what he knew was necessary, putting the mission above his own wants. But it had hurt more than he ever could have imagined and he was beginning to realize exactly what his twin had been going through since leaving Danae behind last autumn.

Sighing heavily, Connor tapped another cigarette out of the rapidly emptying pack, cupping his hand against the wind and flicking his lighter to life.

It must have been hell.

Taking a long pull from his bottle, letting the searing liquid roll over his tongue before swallowing with a grimace, Connor rubbed unthinkingly at the ache that was spreading throughout his leg.

"Life's a bitch, ain't it?" The unexpected, gravelly voice was accompanied by the feeling of someone settling next to him.

Connor nodded slowly, staring at a piece of gum that was so old it might as well have been a part of the cement. "Aye," he said, "it is."

The man's skin was so dark that it seemed to shine in the glow of the city's fluorescent signs. Readjusting the sunglasses that were perched atop his bald head he shot Connor a thoughtful glance, "You look like you could use a friend, brother."

"Men such as myself don't have friends," Connor chased the bitter words with another swallow of alcohol, running a hand through his hair and offering the bottle to the man next to him.

"Ya gotta have friends, my man." The man accepted the bottle, bringing it to his lips and making a face as he swallowed, "So what's got you down? Your job or your woman?"

He chuckled at Connor's nonplussed expression, returning the bottle. "Those are the only things I know of that can make a man look like you do now. So which is it?"

"Both." Connor sighed, turning his attention back to the chunk of concrete-gum and taking a pull from his cigarette.

"Both? That's the pits, brother."

Nodding, Connor glanced up at the man, suddenly remembering to be mistrustful through the whiskey-induced daze. "It's a bit early to be out chattin' up strangers innit?"

The man shrugged, his broad face softening slightly, "Naw, I spend a lot of time on these old streets. The apartment's just too lonely now that Celia is gone."

"Yer wan?"

"My wife," the man agreed, "The most beautiful woman in the world, life just ain't been the same since she died."

"M'sorry."

"Yeah, so was I. I spent a lot of time feelin' sorry for myself and feeling sorry for her. But you know what she told me?" He laughed quietly, shaking his head at some private memory. "She was in the hospital, hooked to only God knows how many machines, and she said to me, 'Everett, everything in this world is for a reason, whether you like it or not.' She wasn't of this world much longer after that."

Connor stilled, exhaling a lungful of smoke and remaining silent. "Did you believe what she said?"

"I _still _believe her, man, Celia being gone don't make her words any less true. God has a plan, and it's bigger'n all of us."

A block away, a bus came around the corner, sloshing noisily through the flooded gutters, windshield wipers flinging water in all directions.

"Well, that's my ride," Everett, said, rising to his feet with a groan. "I hope things work out for you, my man."

Connor rose to his feet as well, stifling a groan of his own as he watched the other man board the bus.

"Everything for a reason," he murmured to himself jamming his hands into his pockets, turning to begin the trek back to his apartment.

And what a reason it was.

Destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish.

o()o


	27. Chapter 27

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Yeah, I know, I hate me too. Thanks to Archerlove and Aranatta for their help with this chapter. You guys should thank them too, they're the reason I don't suck.  
__**Nifty Fact for the Day:**Carnac the Magnificent was a role played by __Johnny Carson__ on __The Tonight Show.__ One of Carson's most well-known characters, Carnac was a __psychic__ with a large, elaborate __turban__ and a plethora of envelopes, Carnac's act involved using his psychic powers to__ answer a question sealed inside one of the envelopes, then opening the envelope to reveal the question. The resulting jokes were usually intentionally corny and often involved __puns__ in some way:_

o(27)o

There wasn't a single thing about the job that felt right to Murphy.

From the too-empty docks, the water sloshing eerily against the worn wood, to the hush that was around and within him, so thick it was suffocating; it all lent to the feeling of _wrongness_ that coiled in the pit of his stomach.

The worst thing of all, though, the thing that unnerved Murphy the most, was the empty space at his left side. He hadn't spoken to his twin since their fight, torn between his pride and the most finely tuned sensation of loneliness he had ever experienced.

The longest amount of time he had ever spent away from his brother had been four days, six hours and twenty-two minutes. They'd been apart often, but never for longer than that tiny slice of summer spent away from home when they were thirteen.

He was twenty minutes away from breaking that record.

These past few days had been the longest of his life, the apartment seemed too big with only him to fill it, the diner seemed listless without someone to joke with and the church seemed all too silent without the whispered sound of his brother's prayers.

For the first time since he was thirteen, Murphy was alone.

_Alone_.

In his mind, the word was synonymous with hell. He had always known that, for him, hell wouldn't be fire and brimstone and all the things mentioned in the Bible. For him, it would be an eternity of endless, aching loneliness, an eternity without his brother.

The thought itself was enough to send a shudder racing up his spine. This wasn't what he had wanted.

Pulling the scratchy black mask over his face, he shook his head fiercely to clear the thought. It didn't matter whether or not he _wanted_ to continue path that the Lord had chosen. He had accepted God's plan for him, he had sacrificed friends for it, he had bled for it, and he _would _continue it for as long as he was able.

With or without his twin.

Somewhere in the distance, a night-bird's cry rang out, mournful and low. The sound made him start, his hand going to the gun that was strapped against his side, hidden by the folds of his jacket.

Swearing softly, he let his head fall back, connecting with the crate he was leaning against with a muffled thump. He was acting like a freshie, an amateur. That sort thoughtlessness would get him killed if he wasn't careful. There was nobody to watch his back now.

Glancing around, he ran his hand nervously over the fabric of his mask, fidgeting with the worn threads around his mouth. Where the fuck was everyone? He was early, having misjudged the time, Connor had always taken care of that, and he knew that drug shipments weren't huge gatherings, but shouldn't there at least be _someone_ around?

As if his thoughts had been made flesh, a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. He spun around, biting off an alarmed shout. A worn black mask looked impassively back at him, housing eyes that were as blue as his own.

"Fuckin' hell, Conn!"

"Christ, Murph," Connor said, shaking his head, the exposed lines around his eyes crinkling into a smile, "Ye're jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full o' rockin' chairs."

Clapping a hand on the back of his brother's neck, Murphy squeezed. "Bastard."

"Yeah, love ye too." To his great relief, Connor reached up, clasping his fingers gently, a silent apology given and accepted, before patting at his pockets.

"Fuck," he muttered coming up empty handed.

Reaching into his own jacket pocket and tugging out a slightly smashed package of cigarettes, Murphy deftly tapped two out, lighting them both with a sharp rasp of his lighter.

Inhaling deeply, the curl of white smoke the only thing marking their existence amid the shadows, the brothers leaned against the crate, both taking unspoken reassurance in the other's presence.

"So where'd ye go?" Murphy asked softly, exhaling.

Connor shrugged, glancing down at the glowing ember of his cigarette before taking another pull, "I went walkin', ended up at the corner o' Main and Laird. Yourself?"

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth, Murphy looked out at the river, made oily and sleek by the moonless night. "Nowhere," he said, hoping the lie didn't sound as obvious as it felt.

Beside him Connor scoffed, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him choke on his lungful of smoke. "Ye fuckin' liar. Ye went ta see her, didn't ye?"

Coughing, trying to be silent and coughing all the harder because of it, Murphy brandished his middle finger, jabbing it towards his twin, "All that fuckin mind readin'," he gasped out between breaths, "and not a fuckin' turban or envelope in sight."

"Aye," Connor chuckled dryly.

"Aye."

Taking in a deep breath, Murphy broke the moment of silence that was beginning to stretch between them, unwilling to submit to the hush of the docks again. "I was wrong," he said quietly, the mirth fading from his voice.

"No," Connor's words were accompanied by a warm hand on the back of his neck, "I was wrong ta want ta leave. Ye don't turn your back on God," he paused, and Murphy could tell the words didn't come easily for his twin, "and ye don't turn your back on your family."

A sharp pang of regret for his previous harsh words shot through Murphy and he wondered if a bigger bollocks had ever put his arm through a coat. It didn't seem likely.

"We're men first," he consoled, "there's gotta be a middle-ground somewhere."

Swallowing hard, Connor bowed his head, "Even if there were, I doubt Maire'd have me now."

"Aw, Christ, Conn, what did ye fuckin' do?"

"What the fuck do ye think I did?" Connor's voice was sharp, but Murphy could see the slump his brother's shoulders, the sight sending another twinge of remorse through him.

"Somethin' retarded, no doubt," he sighed.

"I told her I couldn't see her any more; that I couldn't explain and I was sorry. I figured it was the best all around ta just end it," shuffling his feet, Connor gave a hollow-sounding laugh, "but she didn't much agree."

For a moment, all Murphy could do was blink at his twin, nonplussed, "And I thought _I _was supposed ta be the barmy one."

"No, ye're the stupid one."

"Better than bein' the ugly one," he mused, cocking an eyebrow and grinning, "or the evil one for that matter."

"Christ, don't be startin' that shite again, ye eejit."

"Ye're just mad because I'm pretty _and_ respectable."

"Murphy," Connor raised his fist meaningfully, his mask not quite concealing his smile.

Chuckling, Murphy flicked the last of his cigarette away, watching the filter land in a burst of orange sparks.

"We'll talk ta her, make her understand," he said, sobering as he watched the embers darken and fade against the concrete. Maybe Danae could help.

"Aye," Connor said, glancing around the deserted docks, "Where the fuck is everyone? Ye haven't killed them all already have ye?"

"I haven't, there hasn't been a fuckin' soul around since I've been here."

"And how long is that been, then?"

"Where're yer fuckin' mind readin' skills now, Carnac?" he teased, dodging his brother's fist.

"Jesus," said Connor, with a disgusted sigh, flicking away the butt of his cigarette, "another fuckin' banjaxed mission."

Murphy nodded, still looking out at the river. Having Connor nearby made him feel better, but something still wasn't right. Some unnamable feeling swept through him and he shuddered, suddenly, wanting nothing more than to be away from this place. "Fuck this."

Beside him, as though it had been a contagious as a yawn, Connor's shoulders twitched in a shudder of his own, "Aye. C'mon and let's get out o' here now."

Murphy gave a short nod, turning and heading away from the docks, falling into step next to Connor as they wove through the maze of packing crates and boxes.

Several feet away, silent as the night that cloaked it, a shadow separated itself from the darkness, silently trailing behind them, unnoticed.

o()o

Connor knew she was there before he even turned the corner that lead to their apartment.

Sure enough, sitting in front of their door, her knees drawn up to her chin, was Maire. Her eyes were red and her quiet sniffles pulled painfully at Connor's heart. Their argument came back to him in a torrent of harsh words and pitiful half-explanations.

Seeing them, she wiped at her face and got to her feet, her features drawn and grim. A pregnant silence filled the grimy hallway and Connor found himself resisting the urge to fidget.

Murphy gave him an encouraging pat on the back, repeating the gesture for Maire as he slipped inside the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind him.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, Maire's eyes filling again with tears that spilled over down her cheeks, Connor breathing deeply, trying to pluck the right words from the chaos in his head. Somehow, _I'm a right fucking bastard, _didn't seem like the phrase that would make things right between them.

Finally, he simply opened his arms, "Please," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

She smelled like summer, sweet and clean in his arms, her return embrace surprisingly strong as she fisted her hands against the wool of his jacket.

Her shoulders shook silently and Connor could feel her breath hitching against his neck.

Emotion so strong it was painful flooded through him. A chuckle, dangerously close to a sob, escaped him and he buried his face into her shoulder, running a hand over her hair.

"I'm so fuckin' sorry, darlin'."

"Connor, I –"She looked up at him then beyond his shoulder, her eyes widening.

For a long as he lived, Connor would never forget that instant. It was an unbidden blast of reality, the end of the world foretold in the slight widening of Maire's clear gray eyes.

With a gasp, she shoved him away from her and against the door to his apartment, and Connor heard the all-too-familiar sound of a gunshot: deep, echoing, and final.

Maire blinked at him for a second, before looking down at herself. Connor followed her gaze down to the dark ring that marred her pale shirt and the sudden deluge of blood accompanying it.

The world slowed to a nightmare speed, every movement too slow, too late, useless. He was aware of Murphy bursting out from their apartment, his gun already drawn and returning fire, his brother's battle cry barely audible over the rushing in his ears. But none of it mattered; all that mattered was that Maire was crumpling to the ground, blood rushing out of her, making rivers and rivulets in the cracked tile of the hallway.

Dropping to his knees, he mashed a hand against the bloody hole in her chest, the other somehow already holding his gun. "Hang on," he gasped frantically, "Ye'll be all right."

Maire choked, more dark blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. Dimly, he heard Murphy yell something about an ambulance, but he couldn't leave, not with Maire's blood pouring over his hands, and soaking into the cloth of his jeans.

"Connor," the word was barely above a whisper, already slurring. Not a good sign.

"Don't talk darlin'. Just hang in there, ye'll be all right." The words became a mantra and Connor rocked her gently, "Ye'll be okay, ye'll be all right."

"No," she grimaced, "listen."

"Whatever it is, ye can tell me on our way ta the hospital."

Maire shook her head, her eyes slipping closed and Connor slapped her, sharp but light, leaving a stark, crimson smear against her paling skin.

"Open yer eyes, stay with me." he demanded.

Gunfire echoed through the hallway, and he jumped, shielding Maire with his body.

_Too little, too late_.

"Open yer fuckin' eyes, Maire," he shouted over the shots, "Open yer eyes!"

"Sasha." The word was quiet and pained, but insistent, followed by a horrifying amount of blood and then, silence.

Straightening he looked down at her, unaware of the tears that were streaming down his face. "No," he whispered, shaking her, ignoring the chilling way her head lolled to one side. "Don't do this, darlin', not now."

Somewhere in the distance, there was the whoop of an ambulance siren and closer, the unmistakable sound of Murphy's work boots thundering up the metal stairs, but they were too late. It was all too late.

"Connor? Connor!" Murphy voice broke through and Connor tore his gaze away from the woman in his arms. Looking back, he had no idea if he screamed the words or sobbed them, he had been deafened by the silence.

_She's not breathing_

o()o


	28. Chapter 28

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Ducks in under the wire Okay, so I missed my post date by a mile, but the internet was being a twat and I couldn't even access the site.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **The prayer the Sylvia uses is a hybrid of Act of Contritions number 2 and number 9. Abuelita is a Spanish affectionate for Grandmother.  
_

o(28)o

The hospital lobby was the same as every lobby that Danae had ever been in, dim and quiet, painted in soothing shades of beige and blue. Tranquil watercolors graced the walls and there were several racks of informational brochures lining a far corner, advertising everything from motorized wheelchairs to STD information.

A lone silhouette leaned against the racks, head bowed, a rosary no doubt clasped in its hands.

Murphy.

She had barely taken a step toward him when he looked up. Half a moment later, she was swept into a crushing embrace. Murphy pressed a kiss against the top of her head, seemingly having no intention of letting her go.

"What happened?" she murmured into his shoulder, returning his embrace.

"Fuckin' Street Priests followed us back from a job. One minute I'm watching the telly, and the next there's fuckin' gunshots outside the door."

"Did you . . ?" she trailed off, looking down at the patterned carpet, already knowing the answer but needing to ask all the same.

"I killed them, aye." said Murphy quietly. He reached out, catching her chin, ducking to meet her eyes, "I had ta."

Gently pulling out of his arms, Danae looked up at him, taken aback at the raw anguish in his eyes and shaken at the errant spatters of blood almost hidden by the muted lighting. She offered a silent, selfish word of thanks that it wasn't his, that the two people she cared about most in the world were safe.

"I know," she said softly, surprised at how steady her voice was, how calm. "How is she?"

Murphy ran a trembling, tattooed hand through his hair and over his face. "Not so good, t'was a messy shot. The doctor was talking about stomach acid and her intestines and liver," he paused, swallowing, "he said that even if she lives, she won't ever wake up. The police took her baby into their care."

"Oh, God," she breathed, "How's Connor holding up?"

Shaking his head, Murphy closed his eyes tightly, "He hasn't spoken a fuckin' word ta me. He won't leave her side."

Danae reached out, winding her fingers through his, not missing the tension that thrummed through him and the blood that was crusted under his nails, a painful reminder of how close she had come to losing him. Again. "I'm so sorry."

He nodded, squeezing her hand gently, "Let's get back, I don't want Conn ta be alone any more than he has ta be right now."

She let Murphy lead her through the twisting hallways and into the intensive care unit, so similar to the one where they had met last fall.

Slipping into the room and motioning her to follow, he paused at the hospital bed, bending to kiss the forehead of the woman that lay there.

"I'm here, _deirfiúr_," she heard him murmur; "we're all here for ye."

Maire was white as the sheets, her pretty face already taking on the gaunt, slack appearance that all coma patients acquired with time, a ventilator breathing for her, two IVs, one dripping clear fluid and the other blood, cardiac lead and so many other things all keeping this woman alive . . .

Despite the warm room, Danae shuddered. The Street Priests had come after the Saints, going so far as to follow them to their home. It could have just as easily been Connor again, laying on that hospital bed. It could have just as easily been _Murphy._

"Where's Connor?" she asked, rubbing at the gooseflesh prickling over her arms.

Murphy shook his head, still smoothing Maire's hair gently. "Hopefully ta get somethin' ta eat, or at least stretch his legs a bit. They wanted us ta," he paused, "ta give them permission ta let her die, it upset him pretty bad."

"They can't do that, you aren't family," her response was automatic, instantly going to something that she could understand and manage. Shaking her head, she winced inwardly at the callousness of her reaction.

Nodding absently at Danae's murmured apology, Murphy took Maire's hand in his own, running his thumb over her knuckles gently and she was taken aback at the twinge of jealousy she felt.

_Don't be petty,_ she reprimanded herself firmly, easing a chart from the plastic holder on the back of the door, finding somewhere to look other than the man she loved holding another woman's hand.

The news inside the chart was even grimmer than the picture Murphy had painted. A nicked intestine, damage to other organs from stomach acids, internal bleeding, shattered ribs, possible brain damage from lack of oxygen. Waking up from this ordeal without some sort of lasting damage would be a miracle.

If she survived at all.

_Caught in the crossfire._ It was a cruel term for an even crueler fact of life. Maire Kennsett was an innocent who had the bad luck to get caught in the middle of a war. Later, when she really thought about it, Danae would be furious at Street Priest and Saint alike for their actions, for failing to protect Maire from the deadly game they were playing. But now, tears welled in her eyes. Nobody deserved something like this.

Her gaze shifted to Murphy, still holding her hand, praying now, his accent thick in the quiet room. Wiping under her eyes, she amended the thought - nobody deserved to have to watch someone they cared about go through such a thing.

Closing the chart and slipping it back into its holder, Danae frowned as something on the ground caught her eye. Bending down she retrieved the object, rolling the small wooden bead thoughtfully between her fingers. A few feet away she saw another. And another.

What on earth?

"Murphy?" she inquired softly, straightening and holding the beads out toward him.

He frowned down at her outstretched hand for a moment before his eyes flew open.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, scanning the floor and running a trembling hand through his hair.

Danae followed him with her eyes, certain that her heart had stopped somewhere along the way. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Kneeling, he moved quickly, deftly picking up more beads, adding them to the collection in her hands, all the while still glancing around the room, looking for something else.

Finally, under one of the chairs, he seemed to find what he was hunting for. Turning the object over in his hands, he rose to his feet with a swiftness and determination that was both surprising and a little alarming.

"I have ta go," he said quietly, his face unreadable. The man she loved had suddenly been replaced by the vigilante she feared. "I need ye ta stay here and wait for me."

"What's going on?."

"I have ta find Connor," he said, already tugging on his jacket, the object from the floor still clutched in his hand.

"I thought Connor was here."

Murphy shook his head, "Not anymore. I need ye ta stay here, can ye do that?"

Danae nodded, frowning, "Whatever you need."

Taking her hand, he gave it the briefest of kisses before slipping out of the room, having to actually tug his hand out of her own - something told her that she might not get to touch him again for some time. He took a few hurried steps away before breaking into a run, disappearing down the hallway.

Bewildered, Danae glanced down at the object he had left in her hand, catching her breath as she saw what it was.

A carved wooden crucifix, exactly like the one at the end of his rosary.

With a curse worthy of any MacManus, she slipped the cross into her pocket along with the beads, hoping she had them all.

After one last look down the hall, trying in vain to catch one last glimpse of Murphy, Danae pulled a chair up to the bed, taking a pale, thin hand in her own, and quietly humming the first song that came to mind.

It was going to be a long night.

o()o

Sylvia often prayed for her Alejo when she knew he was selling Absolutionand there had been many days when she wished her lover had never discovered the _Sacerdotes_ at all.

But he had a habit to feed, and so did she, and as often as she prayed for his safety, she spent more time wishing that he would save her a hit at the end of the night when all was said and done.

Her grandmother had always told her that the _Diablo_ wore many faces and spoke all the languages of man and beast. When she was a child, she had laughed at her _abuelita's_ words, slamming the door on the old woman's threats of hellfire and damnation as she went to find Alejo and whatever drug he had for her that day.

Now, however, in the dark, sticky, alley, hunkered amongst the reeking garbage, her knees and palms stinging from where she hand landed on the concrete, she prayed harder than she ever had before.

Dressed in a black coat and torn jeans, his face handsome as that of any of Heaven's angels, the stranger had Alejo pinned against the unforgiving stone of the building by his throat, a gun pressed against his forehead. And as the man threatened her lover in perfect Spanish, so out of place with his pale skin and lighter hair, she realized that her _abuelita _had been right all along. They had lived in sin and now the Devil had come for his pound of flesh.

Alejo's features were so contorted by fear that he could have been one of the graffiti caricatures spray-painted on the brick behind him. His voice broke as he answered the Devil's snarled question, insisting that he had no idea where the _Sacerdotes_ gathered.

Sylvia knew that her lover was lying, and a bone-crunching blow from the Devil proved that he knew it too. Alejo's rapid-fire Spanish turned into and agonized scream and Sylvia cried out with him.

Despite the finger that was now sticking out at an impossible angle, Alejo held fast to his lie, foolishly loyal to a gang that cared nothing about him. They would never know that he lied to protect them, but the Devil knew and the Devil was a thousand times more dangerous than the _Sacerdotes. _

Alejo's voice rose, pleading as he tried to back away from the looming figure before him and looking as though he wanted to disappear into the wall he was pinned against. The Devil remained silent, but his hands moved out of the shadows, swift and precise.

The sound of another bone snapping seemed to echo off the brick of the alley, followed by another tortured scream.

God, why was no one coming to help them? Sobbing frantically, Sylvia looked toward the mouth of the alley, where a couple hurried by without a second glance; their indifference shook her to the core. What was wrong with these people? How could they just look the other way?

"Stop!" She cried. The Devil turned slowly to look at her over his shoulder and Sylvia cringed away from the look on his face. "Please," she whispered weakly, what little courage she had mustered failing, "stop."

The Devil regarded her silently for a moment longer before turning back to Alejo, landing a vicious blow across his face, the metal of his gun connecting ferociously with fragile bones.

"Last chance."

Tears streaking his face, Alejo nodded, cradling his ruined hand against his chest. "_Si_," he gasped, "_Si_, I will tell you."

The Devil leaned in, listening as Alejo spoke, his eyes narrowed. "Is that the truth?" he asked and Alejo nodded rapidly.

Watching them, Sylvia realized with a sudden, horrible clarity that her lover's day of judgment had come. It didn't matter if what he said was truth or not, God was nowhere to be found in this filthy, reeking alleyway.

"It's the truth," Alejo whimpered, his voice thready and pained, "Go now and leave me alone, I won't tell anyone. I swear."

The sound of a gun being cocked sliced through the night air and for a moment, silence reigned supreme. Certain that he had their attention, the Devil smiled. It might have been a nice smile once, crinkling the corners of his eyes, but now, it reminded Sylvia of flesh rotting away to reveal the grinning skull beneath.

"I know you won't."

There was a collective breath between them, then a sound like a cork popping out of a bottle, and Alejo's face disintegrated before her eyes.

What was left of the body crumpled to the ground and if Sylvia had been a stronger woman, she would have screamed, shrieked until someone heard and came to help, but terror had stolen her voice and all she could do was stare at the great, gaping hole where Alejo's face had once been. Blood was pouring out of him and spreading along the concrete, soaking into the garbage that littered the street, turning the litter an ominous shade of crimson.

"My God," she choked, genuflecting, "I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good . . ."

A shadow fell over her. The furious volley of prayers that had been racing through her mind evaporated, along with all of the saliva in her mouth and she looked up into the face of her fate.

"Nobody's coming," the Devil said, his English accented and just as flawless as his Spanish.

Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing hollowly, the black of his coat billowing out behind him.

Sobbing, Sylvia crawled over to where her lover's corpse lay, blood smearing across her torn tights and palms. Pressing herself into the furthest corner, she stared down at her crimson-smeared hands, rocking slightly.

"And in His blood may my soul be made clean. Amen."

o()o


	29. Chapter 29

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I hope everybody out there in PCLand had a great weekend! _  
_**Nifty Fact for the Day:** My Mom used to call me and my brother 'peapod' when we were little, that's where Nigel gets the nickname for Sasha. _

o(29)o

"Who's a pretty princess? Who's a pretty princess? _You're_ a pretty princess!"

The baby squealed happily tossing a dingy pink feather boa around Nigel's neck, eliciting a laugh from the man. "And now _I'm _a pretty princess too!"

The precinct seemed busier than usual, the P.D. and perps alike crammed into every available corner. Even with the office door shut and the window wide open, the place seemed claustrophobic and stifling, too small for its current three inhabitants.

Smecker looked up from the police report he was reading and threw a glare over his shoulder. "Do you mind?" he snapped, "Some of us have actual work to do."

The baby's face crumpled at his tone, but Nigel simply rolled his eyes, offering the little girl a sympathetic smile. "He's just mad because he's _not_ a pretty princess," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Could you be any more of a fag?" Smecker grumbled, turning his attention back to the police report. Jesus, had monkeys written this thing? He paused for a moment, it _was_ the South Boston PD; monkeys probably would have done a better job.

"Could you be any more of a bitch?" Nigel retorted.

"Bich?" The baby inquired and the Asian man clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Pointing a chubby finger at Smecker, the baby beamed, her tears forgotten in lieu of the exciting new word. "He bich!"

Nigel's horrified expression suddenly turned mirthful. "Yes, sugar, he is. But we still love him, don't we?"

"No!"

"Think you could be a little more useful than corrupting the youth of the friggin' nation?" Smecker said, scowling.

With a sigh, the other man returned the boa, draping it around the baby's shoulders with a flourish. "You sit tight, sugar, I'll be back to play in a minute."

Leaning over Smecker's shoulder, Nigel snagged the headphones from where they lay, abandoned on the desk, and held them up to his ear, cocking his head as he listened.

"Not the usual," he commented, raising his eyebrows, "_Tosca_'s a little tragic, even for you."

Snatching the headphones and tossing them back on the desk with a clatter, Smecker shot the other man a withering stare.

"All right," Nigel held his hands up, "all right." He plucked a folder from the top of the pile, leaning against the corner of the desk and flipping through it with a long suffering sigh.

"So Peapod's mother was here?" he asked, pointing to a picture of the crime scene, a bloody pool and field markers indicating where Maire Kennsett had fallen.

"Yeah, and some gangmembers were found here," Smecker produced another photo, this one showing a handful of bodies sprawling along a grungy stairwell, "All of them Street Priests."

"So these guys came after her then."

Smecker shook his head, "That's what I thought at first, but then I got a good look at the apartment the EMTs found her in front of."

Pressing his lips together, Nigel raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"A couple of vigilantes that we know and love . . ." Smecker said, watching Nigel's eyes widen.

"The Saints? Oh, my God, you don't think they did this do you?"

Shaking his head, Smecker picked up another dossier, flipping to the police report and groaning in disgust. Wasn't literacy a prerequisite for joining the force? He would have had better luck giving these assholes crayons and having them doodle the damned scene.

"There's no doubt they killed the Street Priests, ballistics confirmed that the bullets from the bodies were match to the caliber of guns they use. I'm sure that when the reports come back from the lab we'll have definite proof . The slug from Mrs. Kennsett here isn't back from the hospital yet, but I'd be willing to bet that it's nowhere near their weapons.

"So, what is it with her always being around when Street Priests turn up executed by the Saints?"

Smecker shook his head, "I don't know, all of this started when . . ."

_Eureka._

"Idol Ford," he muttered, shoving files and dossiers out of his way, scanning the growing chaos for what he wanted.

Nigel frowned at him, "Want to run that by me again?"

"Mrs. Kennsett didn't start having trouble with the Street Priests until after she discovered those photographs of Idol Ford. She takes these pictures to the press and suddenly we're finding dead Street Priests left and right."

Taking a few of the scattered files, stacking them neatly on a far corner of the desk, Nigel shook his head. "Idol Ford seems a little, well, prestigious to be getting involved with something like the Street Priests. I mean, what are the chances?"

Smecker gave a crow of triumph as he grabbed a file from the jumble on the desk, flipping it open and simultaneously reaching for another. Leaning over them both, Smecker scowled, reaching out for a third dossier. "I'd say the chances are pretty friggin' good. Look, this man is in the photographs that Mrs. Kennsett took as well as this surveillance photo from Special Ops."

Leaning over, examining the two pictures closely, Nigel blinked and leaned back bringing a hand to his mouth. "Oh, God, you're right."

Smecker snorted, "Of course I am."

"So where do the Saints come into all this?"

Smecker looked over at him, something that was almost a smile, playing over his lips. "That's exactly what I'm going to ask them."

"Mah!" the baby cried from across the room, pointing at the small television in the corner of the office. "Mah!"

Nigel and Smecker turned as one to see Maire Kennsett's picture on the screen, a newscaster talking about the tragedy of the previous day. An image of the blood splattered crime scene replaced the smiling blond woman and obscured the television screen as the newscaster declared Maire's condition as 'grave'.

Sliding off her chair, Sasha tottered over to the television, pressing a small hand against the screen, directly over the blood splatter where her mother had been, looking up at the grisly picture with the innocent wonder that only kids seemed to be able to manage.

Gray eyes wide, she turned around, looking at the two men, "Mah?" she asked, lower lip poking out.

"Oh, sweetie," Nigel said, setting the folder aside and scooping the baby up in his arms. Swallowing, he looked at Smecker and the Agent was surprised at the distress he saw in Nigel's eyes. The stricken expression was markedly out of place on the normally unflappable man.

"What do I tell her?" he asked, catching his lip between his teeth. Frowning, Smecker shrugged, looking away to cover his discomfort.

The news reporter switched stories, saying something about a drug dealer being found beaten and murdered in an alleyway, his girlfriend insisting that it was the devil that had come and that judgment day was upon them. Just one more thing proving that the world really was going to hell in a hand basket.

"How do you explain something like this to a two-year old?" Nigel murmured, reaching out to turn off the television. A cry from Sasha made him jerk his hand back, struggling to hold onto the child as she lunged for the screen.

"Mah!" she sobbed, reaching out toward the place where her mother's image had been, "Mah!"

Smecker returned his attention to the files before him, grabbing the nearest one and opening it, the other hand grappling for his headphones.

Solving crime was his forte; the evidence was unfeeling and cold, perfect for someone who generally despised the human race as a whole. Like him. The victims were better left to the touchy-feely types.

However, looking at the child, tears now streaming down her chubby face, as she watched the media's gleeful recounting of her loss, he felt an unfamiliar clench in his chest. He had seen the initial report on Maire Kennsett, and all the medical babble seemed to be saying the same thing:

That this little girl was an orphan now.

o()o

Ducking under the bright yellow tape that was supposed to quarantine the area, Murphy paused for a moment, and stared at the hallway. Once it had been a familiar place, one that he knew by heart, but the remains of the previous day had turned the area into a foreign landscape.

The sound of daily life in the apartment complex bewildered him. It seemed like the world should have at least stopped for a few moments to pay their respects to Maire, but the crime scene markers that had been haphazardly kicked aside and even a set of rust-colored footprints showed that the world hadn't even waited for the blood to dry.

The blatant disinterest made his stomach turn. She had been . . ._was . . ._he corrected himself fiercely, an amazing woman and there wasn't a soul in the world who could be bothered to take notice of her. She was becoming another faceless victim of another senseless crime.

But Murphy wasn't about to let that happen.

He reached to tear away more of the bright yellow tape that obscured the front door of the apartment, only to find ragged edges where it had already been torn. Withdrawing his gun from his waistband, Murphy nudged the door open. If those bastards were still there, waiting to finish what they had started . . .

The apartment was a disaster, still showing the remnants from their scuffle almost a week ago. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor, crushed beer cans and the occasional spatter of blood marking where each of them had thrown the other, or fallen themselves. The television was still on and his bag was still lying open by the couch, next to a half empty bottle of Guinness, another glaring reminder of how close he and Connor had been to having a little peace in their lives, and how painfully far away they were now.

A quick check showed the area to be empty. Murphy smiled grimly as his suspicions were confirmed -- none of the filthy fuckers that had followed them back to the complex had survived. He had seen to that.

Connor's bag was missing from where Murphy had thrown it, heaving it through the door at the first whoop of the ambulance sirens. A pile of blood-stained clothes and a gory ring around the sink showed that his twin had been there. The image of Connor's broken rosary flashed through his mind and Murphy swallowed, running a hand through his hair.

Kneeling, he gathered the few things he needed, tossing them unceremoniously into his own black duffel. He glanced at the TV where pretty blonde newscaster was talking about a recent murder, and frowned. Not that he minded seeing some drug-peddling bastard get what was coming to him, but there was something about the description of the crime scene that seemed . . .off. A moment later, all thoughts of the dealer were forgotten as Maire's picture appeared on the screen.

Beaming brightly into the camera, gray eyes sparkling, she cradled a newborn Sasha in one arm, the other around her son, holding him close. Martin was proudly displaying a masterpiece and Sasha had been captured mid-yawn. It was a perfect moment, and Murphy felt sick knowing that it could never happen again.

Grimacing, he shut off the television, wrenching his duffel shut with more force than necessary, forcing the stomach-turning sensation away. There would be time for grief later; right now he had more important things to do. He had to find his twin.

Murphy opened the door and nearly ran into someone who was lurking outside the apartment. His gun was in his hand before he had made any conscious decision to draw it. A moment later he was staring into the barrel of a gun, trained on him as expertly as his own weapon was aimed. The oath he uttered was matched with one just as vile, if not as colorful.

A pause, then, "MacManus?"

Blinking, Murphy looked past the barrel to the gun's owner. "Dolly? What the fuck are ye doin' here?"

Dolly uncocked his gun, slipping it back into the holster at his waist, his expression almost comically stupefied.

"Jesus, MacManus, what are _you_ doing here?"

Concealing his own weapon, Murphy offered the detective a shrug. "I live here."

"I was backtracking for evidence, trying to see if anything new would turn up," Dolly shot a disgusted look around the ruined crime scene, "I guess it's a lost cause now, huh?"

"Aye."

"Listen, Murph, this woman that was shot – "

"Maire." Murphy supplied.

"Yeah, Maire, what did you know about her? Did she have friends? Family? Did you ever notice anybody strange around the complex?"

Murphy snorted, "_Anybody strange _would probably be the fuckin' Street Priests that shot her, all dead now." He paused for a moment, giving the detective a scrutinizing gaze.

"Ye think they were after her, then."

"Who else would they be after? Oh."

Oh was right. "They were after us, they followed Connor and myself back from the docks. Dolly, why the fuck would they be after Maire?"

"Maybe you should come down to the station with me, Murphy, we can talk there."

"With all due respect, Detective, don't be a twat. Ye know damn good and well I can't do that."

Dolly sighed heavily, kicking at a previously askew evidence marker, "You know that big to-do with Idol Ford a while back?"

Narrowing his eyes, he nodded, "I saw the pictures in the paper." He said, keeping his voice carefully even.

"Mrs. Kennsett was the one that took that photograph."

"Jesus." The word came out no more than a breath, and Murphy was certain that Dolly couldn't have said anything more shocking if he'd suddenly announced that Smecker had decided to go straight.

"You're going to go find the rest of these guys aren't you?"

"Will it be easier for ye ta look the other way if I tell you 'no'?"

"No."

Murphy nodded grimly, clapping the detective on the back. "Ye're good people, Dolly."

He started to turn away, but Dolly's voice stopped him, "Hey Murphy?"

"Aye?"

"Where's Connor?"

Murphy closed his eyes, _shit. _"At the hospital, with Maire."

Behind him, the detective made a noise that couldn't have been polite. "You know that drug dealer that everybody's talking about?"

"On the news?"

"Ballistics got the bullet back that killed him. Now, the PD can't put a match to it, but Smecker, that cocky son of a bitch, did."

Murphy ran a hand through his hair, impatient. "What's your point, Dolly?"

"My point is, that the match was one of you guy's weapons. And just between you and me, there's been two more lowlifes brought in since Mrs. Kennsett was shot, both killed the same way and I'm betting both by the same gun."

His heart plummeted at the words, a sudden onslaught of adrenaline making him tremble. _Christ, Connor,_ he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath to keep his composure. He didn't want to believe it. Part of him wanted to turn around and sock Dolly for spreading such a vicious lie about his twin. But a larger part of him knew, with sickening certainty, that Dolly was telling the truth and that the worst was yet to come.

Nodding slowly, he hoisted his duffel over his shoulder and headed toward the stairwell.

"Thanks Dolly."

o()o


	30. Chapter 30

o()o

**_Author's Note:_** _When you come to the end of all the light you know, and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught to fly.  
This was a message from my dad, I just thought I would share it with all of you out there in PCLand.  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**_Mi petición final is_ Spanish for 'my last request'.  
_

o(30)o

He could feel his brother next to him, trembling.

He didn't have much time.

For as long as Tomas could remember, ever since his _Mami_ had placed the squalling, wrinkled bundle that was supposed to be his brother into his arms, he had known that it was his duty to protect his _hermanito_ from the world.

Tomas had never excelled at anything; he wasn't smart or talented, or well liked. Even at his young age, he had known that he would never be anything extraordinary, but there was no one who could better love or care for Esteban. If nothing else in this life, he was his brother's guardian. It was a role in which he took as much responsibility as he did pleasure.

Beatings were a way of life for the Chavez family. His great-grandfather had beaten his grandfather, who had in turn beaten his father. Therefore, when Ramon Chavez was grown, it was only second nature for him to beat his son. Tomas had long ago accepted the violence as part of his small world.

But when he had discovered Esteban, barely out of diapers, playing listlessly one evening, his face tearstained and bruises marring his tiny limbs and torso, Tomas had flown at his father, striking out with seven-year-old fists, screaming out his righteous fury. In turn, he received a thrashing that would have felled someone three times his age.

In the years to come, he took many punishments meant for his brother, driven by the need to protect him, to do something meaningful.

When he was eleven, his mother had allowed him to stay the night at a nearby friend's home, a place where both parents loved each other and their children with a kindness that Tomas had never before seen. The food was well cooked and the beds were soft. It was a blissful night of untroubled play, one that he considered second best only to heaven.

Hell had been waiting for him at home that morning.

He had found his mother sobbing through a split lip in her bedroom and Esteban, motionless, in a pool of his own blood, battered and scarcely breathing. In that instant, staring down at his beaten sibling, Tomas became a man.

Laying on the cot next to Esteban that night, gently rubbing his _'manito's_ injured back, he had made a promise to his baby brother, and to God, that Ramon would never hurt them again.

The following week he had stood, his father's impatient voice ringing out from the other room, a cold beer in one hand and a soda bottle full of stolen antifreeze in the other, paralyzed with indecision. It was a sin to kill; a stain on his soul that could never be erased, a stain that would deny him any chance at heaven. But the memories of his brother's bloodied face and his quiet whimpers of pain overshadowed Tomas's good conscience. Any tortures that Satan could conjure would pale in comparison to what he had already gone through in his eleven years on this earth.

The decision had been made.

Ramon was dead by the next morning, his soul sent straight to hell, taking what was left of his oldest son's innocence with it.

Now, pressed into a corner of a lavish conference room, hidden beneath one of the tables like a child, he had one hand clasped over Esteban's mouth, the other holding him close, determined to protect his brother, once again, from anyone who would dare harm him.

Tomas's side was on fire and he could feel the slippery wetness of new blood as it soaked through his shirt. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, each gasping breath going into his lungs like broken glass. He had tried to tell Esteban that it was only a nick, and that he would be fine, but the bullet was somewhere inside his chest like an ember, searing through flesh and bone, proving him a liar faster than he could have ever imagined.

The man had burst through the doors, catching all of them off guard. Most of the _Sacerdotes _had died before they even regained enough sense to reach for their guns. Arturo had been among the first to fall, the right side of his chest exploding into a fine red mist.

Chest heaving, tears streaming down his face, Esteban was clinging to him a palm mashed against the wound in his side, applying painful pressure in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. Another gunshot made them both jump, Esteban's alarmed cry muffled against his fingers.

"Shh . . ." Tomas murmured, gagging on the breath he had been in the middle of taking. Molten agony spread through his chest and his mouth was suddenly full of the hot metallic taste of blood.

He didn't have much time.

Turning his head, he spat a wad of crimson onto the once pristine carpet with a grimace, "Now listen to me, _'manito._ When I tell you to, I want you to run, get out of here and don't stop until you're far away."

Esteban stilled, his eyes swallowing the rest of his face, staring at him and then shook his head furiously beneath Tomas's hand.

"You have to," he insisted.

Wrenching away, Esteban freed his mouth, "No! I won't leave you --"

"_Càllate_!" He hissed, forcing down the shiver that crawled up his spine, "shut up." Christ, when had it gotten so _cold_ in here? It seemed as if the bullet that had been searing only moments before had turned to ice, freezing him from the inside out, numbing the pain. He didn't have much time. "You have to do this for me."

"But he'll kill you!"

Looking down at his sodden shirt and the blood that was still pouring from his body, Tomas offered his brother an apologetic smile. "He's already done that, _'manito._"

"No! Tomas, no! " Fresh tears flooded down Esteban's cheeks, unchecked. Reaching up with a wince, Tomas brushed them away, a gesture he hadn't performed since they were little, since before they'd learned that men didn't cry.

"I need you to do this for me," his eyes slipped shut, and with monumental effort he forced them open again, staving off the darkness creeping in from the corners of his vision, "_mi petición final_."

Esteban sucked in a few rapid breaths, trying to mold anguish into strength, and then finally nodded, swiping under his eyes.

"Swear it," Tomas insisted, hearing the slur of his words, "you have to get out, no matter what."

"_Prometo_," he said softly, sniffling, "I love you."

Tomas inclined his head with a gentle smile, his chest swelling with pride. "I love you too, _'manito,_" he said, pulling his brother close for a last embrace before pushing him away._ "_Now, go. Go!"

Esteban scrambled out from under the table, bolting for the far exit and Tomas lurched to his feet, using what little strength he had left to plunge toward the madman who had attacked them.

There was no clash between them, but Tomas knew that there wouldn't be, he was too weak, too close to death to do any harm. He could only hope that this distraction would give Esteban enough time to get away.

Chin up and shoulders back, Tomas wiped his expression clean of any fear as he had done so many years ago in the face of his father. The metal of the madman's gun was cold against his forehead. He didn't have much time left.

Looking past the barrel and into his killer's eyes, shuddering at what he saw within. Cold, hard, and utterly without feeling, they didn't reflect the madness he'd expected. Tomas had been wrong, this man wasn't insane.

He was dead inside.

Giving a curt nod, half in sudden understanding, one dead man to another, half in acknowledgement to both their losses, Tomas felt a small smile curving on his mouth. Whatever came after this life, he had done right by his brother and nothing else mattered.

_Heaven or hell, 'manito, I'll always be looking out for you. _

o()o

Esteban felt the gunshot as much as he heard it, the sound ripping a sob from him and making him stumble.

His brother was gone.

How could someone do this to his family? It had been a business meeting, the same as every other, routine and boring. They had done nothing to deserve this.

Sprinting away from the conference room turned slaughterhouse, Esteban could hear hurried footsteps behind him, the madman chasing him down, determined to kill him like he had murdered his beloved _familia_.

His cheeks were wet with tears, or was it Tomas's blood? Did it really matter? Both were painful, blinding him as he ran.

It was almost relief when a rough hand grabbed him by the back of the neck, hauling him backwards and pinning him against the wall. It was his place to die here, with his family, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

The gun barrel was hot, burning where it pressed against his skin. Looking up, Esteban met his attacker's gaze, surprised at the sudden jolt of _déjà vu_ he felt.

_I know you . . . _

Despite his vicious actions, the man was eerily silent, his face hard and set like some vengeful statue come to life. His torn jeans and dark coat were splattered with crimson, his hands crusted black with blood, some old, some new, all of it from the _Sacerdotes de la Calle._

"_Asesino_," Esteban hissed, his fear and grief momentarily obscured by writhing rage, "Murderer! They were my family!"

The man's only response was to pull back the hammer of the gun, his features still as cold as his eyes.

Esteban stared at him defiantly, holding his breath as he waited to rejoin his loved ones in heaven. But the fatal shot never came.

Instead, a part of the shadows unmolded itself from the rest, lunging toward the madman and knocking him to the ground. The bullet that should have killed Esteban lodged itself harmlessly in the ceiling, showering him with plaster.

Nonplussed, wavering between relief and crushing disappointment, Esteban stared at the tangle on the ground before him.

Identical black jackets. Identical torn jeans. Identical blue eyes, one set wide the other narrowed, both enraged as they stared each other down.

_Brothers, _his mind supplied quietly.

The madman bucked under the newcomer's weight, shoving at him, snarling. Esteban watched, transfixed, as his formerly stoic features became feral. The man landed a well-timed kick to his brother's chest and the darker of the two was thrown backward, landing hard. This time there was no chance to defer the shot and Esteban felt the wind of the bullet against his cheek and a hole appeared in the plaster scant inches away from his head.

"Time ta go, kid."

The sense of _déjà vu _returned with renewed force and Esteban looked down, directly into the face of his rescuer. He had never known the man's name, but his face brought a deluge of memories.

The ache of cracked ribs, the foul taste of stagnant water and bile and cigarette smoke, someone pounding him on the back, shouting at him as he had puked up water, replacing it with much needed air, kind words spoken in strangely accented Spanish while he lay in the hospital bed.

It seemed that this man had saved his life a second time.

A firm shove sent him staggering backwards, "That wasn't a fuckin' suggestion!"

Esteban Ran.

o()o.


	31. Chapter 31

o()o

_**Author's Note: **This chapter was co-written with Aranatta . . .well, to be honest, he did most of the work . . . and brainstorming . . .and dialogue . . .and even some fun role-playing so I could get the actions just right. Believe me, there's nothing more fun then going "Okay, beat the crap out of each other! Okay, stop! Would you call that a lunge or more of a heave?" He's the best and I hope he knows that!  
_**_Nifty Fact for the Day:_ **Focáil leat _is Gaelic and roughly translates into 'fuck you'. Up to Ninety is Irish slang for being losing your temper enough to start a fight. And the quotes Connor uses near the end are from Revelations 14:13 and 21:4_

o(31)o

_And Shepherds We Shall Be, For Thee My Lord, For Thee . . . _

"Have ye fuckin' lost it, man?"

Struggling to keep himself between his furious twin and the kid, Murphy could feel his grip on Connor begin to give. Gritting his teeth, he held on until the kid finally got it through his head and ran, making sure he was well out of sight before letting go.

The instant he did, Connor rounded on him with an inarticulate cry of outrage and a salvo of blows, driving him backward.

" Conn, stop!"

A fist connected jarringly with the side of his head, sending sparks across his field of vision. Stunned, he was too slow to react as Connor charged, sending them both crashing through a door and skidding across the nauseating green tile of the hotel lobby's bathroom.

They landed in a heap of arms, legs and weapons, both scrabbling for the upper hand. Murphy found himself trapped beneath his brother, struggling to avoid the violent onslaught. As Murphy dodged, Connor's fists slammed again and again into the unforgiving floor of the bathroom, splitting his knuckles and leaving smears of crimson on the green tile, but he seemed unaware of the damage he was doing to himself, focused solely on pounding Murphy into pulp.

For as long as Murphy could remember, he and Connor had fought. They fought when they were drunk and to blow off steam. They had fought over matters that had, at the time, seemed like life or death, and over nothing at all. Their Ma had often told them that they even fought in her belly, kicking and shoving for space. It was nothing more than a requirement for being brothers, as were the black eyes, split lips and the occasional trip to the hospital for stitches that came along with it.

But despite all their years of brawling and all the times he had seen his twin up to ninety, the wrath that was now in Connor's eyes was new, and it unnerved Murphy more than the bloodied fist that presently rushed toward his face.

As quickly as he managed to dodge the first blow, another followed, brutal and unseen. Murphy's head snapped backwards against the tile and he tasted blood.

Spitting the coppery taste away, he glared up at his brother, and batted away the punch coming toward him. "Get a fuckin' hold of yerself man."

Connor's hands closed around the collar of his shirt, hauling Murphy roughly to his feet and swinging him in a wide circle. The fabric gave way and sent him spinning into the urinals. The his back collided with the porcelain with bruising force and the ancient fixture gave way beneath him, shifting from its base even as it crumbled, water gushing from the now decimated plumbing.

He flung a hand out to steady himself, but it was too late, the newly created geyser had already flooded the floor and his feet slipped out from under him, landing him hard on the tile.

Connor was on him in a heartbeat, pinning him down, forcing his head under the deluge. Water rushed into his mouth and he choked on it, sputtering as he tried to get free.

_Jesus. . . Fuck, can't . . . breathe . . . _

Catching Connor's wrists and swinging his leg in a broad arc Murphy gasped in a breath of much needed air as he reversed their positions, shoving his twin hard against the floor, gripping his shoulders with both hands.

"Connor," he panted, trying to subdue his struggling brother without drowning him in the process, "fuckin' stop this."

With a grunt, Connor planted a steel-toed work boot into his chest and launched him from his knees, sending him sprawling backwards into the row of stalls across the room.

He hit the unforgiving corner of a stall door first, a crunch and a flash of blinding agony shooting through him as the impact forced his shoulder from the socket, turning his left arm into dead weight and leaving a large dent in the metal of the door.

Swearing, he pulled the injured limb a little closer to his body, gritting his teeth and turning to face his twin.

_Power Hath Descended Forth from His Hand, That Our Feet May Swiftly Carry Out Thy Command . . . _

Murphy's hands were balled into fists, his eyes narrowed and angry, every muscle tense, but Connor could tell that he didn't really want to fight. Second mistake of the evening.

His first had been not leaving well-the-fuck-enough alone.

His twin opened his mouth to speak, but Connor didn't want to hear it. The handle of his gun reinforced the blow to Murphy's face and he heard a snap. Had he broken something?

He hoped so.

Murphy staggered backward, swearing, blood streaming between his fingers. The droplets fell into the rising water where they blossomed into tiny roses and faded away. Connor stared at them, transfixed; his brother's blood didn't pool and spread like Mai . . . like hers had.

The thought made him tremble and he could feel the treacherous grief slithering into every bone and muscle, threatening to take over. The shaking had to be visible to his twin, even with the water pouring over them and Murphy's right eye swelling shut.

With a snarl at his own weakness he raised his gun, everything else forgotten in his sudden, desperate, need to make Murphy hurt. To make him pay.

"Indifference o' good men, Murph," he ground out, taking aim, "the worst evil there is."

"Indifference of . . .?" With quicksilver speed, his twin's hand shot out and plucked a sizeable chunk of porcelain from the water. Murphy deftly drove the chunk into the flesh just above his elbow, hitting the nerve there. Agony flared all the way up his shoulder and into his neck, but he refused to give up the gun. The shot was deafening in the enclosed bathroom, sending a shower of fragmented tile exploding in all directions.

Kicking the gun well out of reach, Murphy closed the distance between them and lashed out again with his impromptu weapon.

"Indifference?"

It smashed into Connor's temple, the impact sending him backwards into the mirror that graced the far wall, shattering it into thousands of spiraling, reflective shards. They shimmered under the water like multitudes of coins in a wishing fountain. Or laying in the eyes of the dead.

The blow brought him to his knees, his hand going to the newly opened gash just above his eyebrow. Blood dripped steadily into his eyes, stinging as it blinded him.

"_Focáil leat_!" The normally kindly Gaelic was cruel, and Connor watched through the bloody haze as Murphy's face hardened, becoming as closed and deadly as his own. _Now_ his twin was ready to fight.

Tossing his now blood-smeared weapon away, he tackled Connor with a growl "You think . . . I didn't fuckin' love her too? That I don't . . . fuckin' care?" The words were punctuated by ungraceful punches, his brother's normal dexterity lost in anger.

"Ye don't fuckin' care!" Connor batted the blows aside, fists flashing out and slamming into his brother's ears, "Ye never fuckin' cared!"

"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ!" Murphy recoiled from the blows, hands going to his ears.

Connor took the opening, slamming a knee into his brother's belly and driving his elbow into the back of Murphy's neck as his brother pitched forward. Murphy caught himself with a yelp of pain, the bulge that should have been his shoulder becoming even more deformed.

"Ye fuckin' let her die!" Connor cried, jabbing an accusatory finger toward his twin.

Coughing, spitting water and blood, Murphy sat back on his knees, looking up at him through blackening eyes. "She's not fuckin' dead and ye should be with her now!"

The words sent a treacherous pang of regret through him and he paused, fist raised. There was no turning back now, Mai . . ._ she_ was gone and there was nothing else he could do.

They had to pay.

He could feel the remorse dissolve, fading in lieu of the familiar vehemence that had kept him going this past week. Connor brought his fist down, but the blow never landed. Murphy's boot connected with his thigh and he buckled under the crippling pain, landing hard on his knees.

Slowly, with a grimace, Murphy got to his feet, cradling his arm. "You may have abandoned her for dead, but I sure as fuck won't."

His brother's words cut through the numb surprise, and new fury welled up in him. With a cry fueled as much by rage as by betrayal, labored to his feet and charged. His shoulder collided into Murphy's mid-section with a sickening, satisfying crunch.

Murphy doubled over, crashing backwards into a stall door before sinking into a wretched heap against the grimy toilet.

As his twin collapsed, Connor reached around him, past the torn gray shirt, fumbling for what he knew had to be there. Grinning savagely as he found his prize, his twin was nothing if not predictable, Connor yanked the gun free from Murphy's waistband, pressing against his brother's head.

Now he would pay.

_So We Shall Flow a River Forth to Thee, and Teeming with Souls Shall it Ever Be . . . _

Breathing had become torture, each beat of his heart sending fresh waves of agony rolling through his injured shoulder and ribs.

Murphy allowed the throbbing to take him from the flooded bathroom to a red wash and finally darkness. Slowly, his eyes slipped closed, he could feel himself sliding downward, curling around his injured ribs, his abused muscles refusing to support him any longer.

Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, Connor hauled him back to his knees. The touch of cool metal snapped him back to the here and now as the barrel of his own gun was pressed against his skull.

Murphy tried to resist, but pain had deadened his limbs, reducing his struggles to nothing more than weak thrashing. He spat another wad of blood into the water and glared up at his brother.

"What, are you going ta fuckin' kill me too, now? Run out of Street Priests, did ye?"

"Blessed are the dead, Murph," Connor said, "they may rest from their labors; and their works follow them."

"Don't give me that shite," he snapped, "ye know damn good and well that it won't fuckin' work on me."

Connor was silent, staring down at him, face unreadable, and then he shrugged, cocking the gun, digging the barrel deeper into the already bruised skin.

"In me, God's wrath is finished. The first things have passed away."

Murphy could hear the rush of water and his brother's labored breathing, somewhere behind him, the smashed stall door squeaked on bent hinges. His world slowed, becoming a multitude of tiny details.

Details that would no doubt define his last moments on this earth.

There had never been any doubt that the mission would kill him, some haphazard shootout or job gone awry sending him into God's hands. But in his wildest dreams he had never imagined his life ending like this, at the hand of the person he loved and trusted more than anyone in the world.

Was this really God's will? It didn't seem fair that he should die, murdered by his own brother with his own gun. It wasn't right that the Saints of South Boston should end with the repeating of Cain and Abel.

He wished he could have had just a little more time. Time to see Danae once more, if nothing else then to tell her that he loved her once more and feel the warmth of her kiss. Time to speak to his Ma and hear her throaty laugh as she recounted some mortifying childhood memory. Time to have just one more night with Connor, sharing drinks and jokes in the smoky comfort of a good pub, staying until the bartenders threw them out and then ambling home in companionable silence.

Closing his eyes, swallowing the pain that threatened to choke him, Murphy prayed for his soul and for Connor's. With the entreaties came a sort of exhausted peace. If this was God's will, then so be it.

_I forgive you_, _Conn_he thought sadly.

"_In nomine patris_," he whispered through bloody lips, "_et fili, et spiritus sancti._"

o()o


	32. Chapter 32

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Wow, lots and lots of expletives and threats from readers last chapter, I guess that means I'm doing a decent job, huh? Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, yelled, threatened and swore, it's good to have passionate readers.  
_**_Nifty Fact for the Day:_ **Más é do thoil é _is gaelic for please, _le do thoil _also means please and is a little more commonplace. _

o(32)o

"_In nomine patris, et fili, et spiritus sancti_."

Head bowed, defeated, Murphy held his breath, waiting for Connor to deliver him to his maker. He clenched his good hand into a fist, refusing to admit that he was afraid, refusing to admit that he had regrets. But instead of a bullet to the brain, the cool push of metal disappeared from his forehead.

Blinking, he looked up to see his brother staring at the gun. Connor turned it over meditatively in his hands, fingers skimming over the barrel and chamber before moving to caress the trigger.

"_In nomine patris,_" Connor echoed his words quietly, without inflection, finger sliding a little more firmly over the trigger, "_et fili," _

His twin's gaze flickered to him for the briefest of seconds, a wordless, empty, goodbye, and then Connor turned the weapon onto himself, pressing it firmly against his temple.

"_spiritus sancti.". _

_Oh shit._

"Connor, no!"

Another surge of adrenaline exploded through Murphy's veins and he was on his feet in an instant, wrestling the gun out of his twin's hands. "Don't!" Wrenching it from Connor's fingers, he flung the weapon across the room, hearing it land with a muted splash, safely out of reach.

Chest heaving, Connor stared at the place where the gun had landed, his mouth working soundlessly. Then, his expression shattered and he collapsed to his knees in the icy water, burying his face in his hands, his entire body caving in on itself.

And he screamed.

The anguished wail was muffled by Connor's palms, but it still made gooseflesh prickle across Murphy's arms and the hackles on the back of his neck stand up. As long as he lived, he never wanted to hear such a sound again.

Falling onto his brother, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his shoulder and ribs, he scrabbled to pull Connor into a fierce, one-armed, embrace. After a moment, Connor responded, burying his face into Murphy's shoulder, the dark wool of Murphy's coat muffling his cry.

Rocking gently on his knees, Murphy ran a battered hand over and over his brother's head, leaving streaks of red in the dark blonde of Connor's hair, murmuring nonsense meant to soothe.

"Fuck. . . Oh fuck . . ." Connor shuddered against him, choking on huge, grief-clotted breaths.

Clinging to each other, both exhausted and finally able to grieve, they were christened in blood and in falling water, just as they had been when God had first placed his divine finger on their hearts.

Murphy wiped absently at his own eyes as Connor's suffering overflowed into him, the force of it making his throat constrict and his body tremble. "I have ye," he murmured, hearing his voice break. "I'm here, Conn."

With a strangled sob,Connor tightened his grip, sending a bolt of white hot misery though Murphy's abused shoulder and ribs. He grabbed at his side, gasping, "Fuck!"

Releasing him, Connor sucked in a surprised breath, eyes widening as his gaze swept over Murphy, "Jesus fuckin' Christ, your shoulder."

"I know." Murphy glanced down at the lump of shifted bone and torn muscle where his arm now hung uselessly by his side, and attempted a shrug and a smile for his twin's sake, "nothing a pint o' plain and a bottle of aspirin won't fix."

"Go on outta that," Connor said, swiping under his eyes and composing himself with a single, deep breath, "here, let me have a look."

Murphy knew Connor was being as careful as he could, but each touch was agony and it was all he could do not to recoil from his brother's probing fingers.

"Are ye fuckin' done yet?" he grated out through clenched teeth.

Connor sighed, withdrawing, his face grim, "Fuck," he said, "its fuckin' right out o' socket,"

Murphy nodded, he'd suspected as much. "Aye, it's too bad for me to fix myself, I'll need ye ta help."

Fisting his fingers in his hair, and then moving to scrub a blood-blackened hand over his face, Connor bowed his head, his eyes closed.

"Do ye remember how?" Murphy prompted quietly, when his twin didn't answer, watching Connor closely.

Opening his eyes, staring at the floor, Connor nodded, "Push and pull until ye fuckin' fall over," he said, "I think I'd rather man the iron."

Murphy snorted, offering him an unsteady smile, "No ye wouldn't."

Cupping Murphy's elbow in one hand, the other circling his wrist, Connor shuddered, his breath hitching, "I'm so fuckin' sor --"

Reaching out with his good arm, Murphy cut short his twin's words with an affectionate pat. _I know. _Connor leaned forward, allowing Murphy to grip his forearm, bracing himself against the misery that was to come.

"Do it."

It took three torturous tries, the pain intense enough to make his knees buckle and his stomach lurch as the bone grated against ruined muscle. But Connor was there, supporting him and finally, after a final sounding crack and blinding moment of agony, Connor forced his shoulder back into the socket and the pain faded into a manageable ache.

Blowing out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, Murphy wiped the sweat from his hairline and gingerly tested his arm. It would be a bitch in the morning, but for now, he would be fine.

"Nicely done," he said, nodding his approval toward his twin.

Connor ignored him, face bleak, staring at the shards of mirror that glittered beneath the water. "Are ye all right?" he asked, not looking up.

Murphy reached out, resting his good hand on his twin's neck and squeezing gently, keeping the other held close to his body. "I'll live."

"Murph?" Connor's voice was strained, the tiny muscle in his jaw working furiously. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, making it stand up in chaotic spikes and adding more blood to the mix.

Murphy frowned at him, "Aye?"

"Do ye . . ." He stopped, swiping under his eyes, and tried again, "Have ye got any pennies?"

The distant whoop of a siren made them both jump and Murphy glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see the first wave of police officers already arriving. "There isn't time."

Connor shook his head resolutely, holding out his hand, "I'll make time."

"Did ye not hear the fuckin' sirens? They'll –"

"_Más é do thoil é_, Murphy." Looking up, Connor met his eyes, the plea just as evident there as in his voice. "Please."

Sighing, Murphy nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins. He dropped them into his twin's outstretched palm, reserving some for himself.

Connor's gaze flickered down to his handful of meticulously polished pennies and back to Murphy's eyes. Murphy nodded, clapping him on the back and answering the unspoken words between them.

"Pray fast," he advised, slinging his good arm around Connor's shoulders, giving and receiving support as they hobbled out of the decimated bathroom.

Neither he nor Connor noticed that they weren't alone. Once they had passed, the shadows moved slightly, edging toward the door, slipping quietly through the water and retrieving Murphy's gun from where it lay, then slipping toward the exit.

o()o

Somewhere between Metallica and Mozart, Danae realized that she was no longer alone in the room.

The nurses had been in and out all night, their hourly checks her only company. In between their visits, she jumped at shadows, expecting the men that had shot Maire to return and finish what they had started. The scene had played out thousands of ways in her mind's eye, each way ending in death each scenario fraying her nerves a little more.

Now, whoever was in the room was too quiet to be a doctor, and Maire wasn't due for vitals for another twenty minutes. Whoever this was wasn't supposed to be there. Something was wrong.

Gently laying Maire's hand by her side, Danae grappled blindly for the nearest weapon which, unfortunately, was the television remote. Makeshift bludgeon clutched in her hand, she looked up and saw not the dangerous intruder she had been expecting, but Murphy leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling wearily down at her.

Or rather what was left of Murphy.

His face was mess of blood and bruises, pale skin barely visible through the myriad of injuries. He was soaked from head to toe, his hair hanging damply in his eyes and even from where she sat, she could see him shivering.

"Oh God," she whispered, feeling her eyes widen.

Murphy opened his arms, wincing, and she was on her feet in an instant, the remote control clattering to the floor. A thousand questions raced through her mind, each one vying to be the first asked. They clogged in her throat and she choked on them with a sound that was dangerously close to a sob.

He caught her gently, pulling her into his arms and smoothing a chilled hand over her hair. "Hey now," he soothed, "don't. Don't do that."

Slowly she brought her hand up to touch the purple-black bruise that covered the entire right side of his face but stopped, curling her fingers into a trembling fist. "God, Murphy, what happened to you?"

He chuckled, resting his chin on top of her head, "It's kind of a long story."

"Did you find Connor?"

"Aye, he's outside, waiting," Murphy glanced to where Maire lay, and brought his thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth, his vision clouding, "he's not ready ta be here just yet."

"Is he in as good a shape as you are?"

Closing his eyes, Murphy nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly, "aye."

Sighing, she shifted in his arms and felt him cringe, releasing her to grab at his side.

As quickly as he had let her go, he reversed the action, his arm going around her again. "I'm all right," he said pressing a hand against the small of her back and keeping her from moving away

"No, you're not."

Now that he was in the light she could see how pale he was beneath the mottled rainbow of bruises and the painful hunch of his shoulders. The way he held onto the guardrails of the hospital bed to steady himself, fingers curving white around the metal, told Danae that he was a lot worse off than she had first thought.

. The trembling in her hands began to spread upwards, making her heart jackhammer against her ribcage and her stomach turn. Slipping carefully out of his embrace, she tried to fashion the turmoil in her brain into something useful. She could fall apart once Murphy was no longer a bloody, swaying, mess.

Reaching out, Murphy caught her chin in his hand, gently forcing her to meet his gaze, his face an odd mixture of pain and regret. "Danae,--"

Danae shook her head, pulling out of his grasp, "let's do this later, okay?"

Making herself move away from him, she grabbed a pillowcase from a nearby stack of linens and began opening cabinets, giving a quiet sigh of relief when she found what she was looking for.

_Perfect. _

Grabbing an armload of towels from the supply cupboard she dumped them into the case. Half a package of gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide were next, followed by bandages and a roll of medical tape.

"What the fuck are ye doin?" Murphy asked, frowning as she fumbled to tie the bulging pillowcase shut.

"Stealing medical supplies," she said, the words coming out more terse than she had intended, if only her damn hands would stop shaking.

"Danae—"he began again, trying to reach out to her once more.

Danae took another step backward, keeping much needed distance between them. "Can you make it to the parking lot?"

His arm dropped to his side, hurt flashing across his features before they hardened. "I can make it, aye.

"We'll go to my place," she said. It wasn't a question.

With a sigh, he nodded, leaning arduously over the bed to press a kiss against Maire's forehead, murmuring something meant for the cataleptic woman's ears only.

The look in his eyes broke Danae's heart, and more than anything she wanted to go to him, to kiss his hurts away. But her practicality won out. All the kisses and comfort in the world weren't going to stop the bleeding.

She watched him straighten, pain etched across his face, and then turned away so he couldn't see the tears welling in her eyes.

"Let's go."

o()o


	33. Chapter 33

o()o

_**Author's Note:** Well, guys, this is my last post before I head to Ireland. PM me with an address if you want a postcard from someplace we visit. (Details are in my profile letter)  
__**Nifty Fact for the Day: '**I could eat the lamb of Jesus through the rungs of a chair' is one of the more colorful Irish phrases meaning 'I'm very hungry'. It was just too much fun not to use. _

o(33)o

He hadn't eaten in days, hadn't slept for almost twice as long, praying that this was nothing more than a nightmare that he would wake from, that he would open his eyes to the sunlight streaming into the room and Mai . . .the woman that he loved . . . in his arms.

But he hadn't woken up, and in the space of a moment the nightmare had become reality and reality had become hell. Time had faded away into a montage of desperate pleas and bloody splatters, all made meaningless by the tsunami of wrath and carnage he had been drowning in.

Even now, he wasn't sure exactly what day it was.

Whispered words, almost as familiar as the voice that had whispered them, had plunged through the deluge of chaos and he had resurfaced with his brother's cries in his ears and a gun to his head. The nightmare was finally over, and at the same time, it was just beginning.

Running an unsteady hand through his hair, his fingers tugging through the now gummy streaks of blood, Connor slouched into Danae's couch, curling around one of her throw pillows. He stared blindly at the floor, pushed too far beyond his limits to feel any one thing. The pain, guilt and loss melded together in a mind-numbing tide, each ebb and flow revealing one more thing to hate himself for.

_What have I done?_

Soft warmth settled around his shoulders, startling him from his dark thoughts. Looking up, he saw Danae still holding the edges of the blanket, fussing with them slightly. A cup of fresh coffee sat on the table before him. She offered him a compassionate smile and he looked away, tugging the blanket from around his shoulders.

"I'll only make a mess of it," he muttered, trying to shove the soft fabric back toward her.

Danae lifted an incredulous eyebrow, "You're soaked."

"I'm fine," _And_ _I don't deserve your kindness. _

Coming out of Danae's guestroom, Murphy leaned against the entryway with a groan, already huddled under at least three different blankets. In one battered hand he held a steaming mug identical to the one in front of Connor, the other arm pressed protectively against his body.

"Christ," he said, "I need a fuckin'cigarette."

Connor patted his pockets, the habit honed by years of smoking and years of loaning his brother cigarettes. He came up with a pack of sodden, tobacco-colored, sludge. With a grimace he tossed the mess onto the coffee table where it landed next to his coffee cup with a weighty _splat. _Between the water and the brawl, not a single smoke has survived.

Murphy made a face at the pack, which was beginning to leak foul-looking brown water across the wood, and sighed. "Fuck."

Danae glanced up at him then away, folding the blanket in half. "There's some in my junk drawer."

Murphy's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What the fuck, Danae? Ye don't smoke."

An amused smile flickered across her face, gone so quickly that Connor began to doubt if he had actually seen it in the first place. Danae shook her head. "They're leftover from before," she said, and this time the smile held, "I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them. Just in case . . . you know, you guys came back."

With a grin, his world apparently set to right again by the fact that Danae still didn't smoke, Murphy disappeared and from the room. A moment later, Connor could hear him rummaging through the kitchen drawers, swearing under his breath. He was certain that Danae had missed it, but Connor had caught the brief flash of guilty pain in his twin's eyes just before Murphy smiled and wasn't surprised to find that he was feeling the same thing.

Danae watched Murphy leave, her expression turning pensive, and Connor felt his heart clench, wondering if the Saints could touch anyone's life without bringing them heartache . . . or worse.Rocco, Danae, Mai . . . _Her_ . . . When would it ever be enough?

Reaching out, he took the blanket from her, unfolding it and wrapping it around her securely.

"Ye're a good girl, Danae," he said softly, getting to his feet and pressing a chaste kiss against her cheek.

"Connor?"

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised, "Aye?"

"I'm glad you're here."

The words hit him like a stone, painful and unexpected, and he found himself pulling her into a hug, his eyes prickling.

"I'm sorry it had ta be this way," he murmured, blinking hard. 'This isn't what we wanted for ye."

"Oh, Connor, no," she said returning his embrace, and he could hear the tears in her voice, "don't be sorry."

Releasing her and snuffling quietly, Connor looked down at his boots, nodding, trying to preserve what little of his composure remained.

_I don't deserve your compassion._

Finally, with the sound of one last drawer slamming shut, Murphy crowed his triumph, reappearing in the entryway with a slightly squashed pack of cigarettes.

"C'mon," he said, brandishing the package with a flourish, "and have a smoke with me."

Nodding, Connor grabbed his cup of coffee and followed his twin out of the apartment, noticing the way Danae stepped away from Murphy as they passed by her.

Leaning against the hideous orange of Danae's patio, Murphy gave the slightly squashed pack of cigarettes one last thoughtful glance before tapping two out and offering one to Connor.

"Probably ought to get your head cleaned up sooner than later," he said quietly as he flicked his lighter to life.

Connor mirrored the action, pleased at the flame that sprang from his own lighter, the Zippo unfazed by the drenching it had received. "Aye," he said, taking a long pull and letting his head fall back as the nicotine dulled the throbbing in his hands and eased the scraped, raw, feeling in his nerves. "Yourself as well, it looks like you could use a little ice."

Giving a quiet, rueful, chuckle Murphy licked his shredded lower lip. "Aye, I think I have a tooth loose in the back. It hurts like a bitch."

The words were spoken without any animosity, his twin already moving on from what had happened, but they sent a sharp knife of guilt between Connor's ribs nonetheless.

They had fought often as children, and only slightly less as adults, their arguments raging from playful spats to knock-down drag-out brawls. There had never been any shortages of black eyes or bloodied noses in any MacManus household, least of all theirs. Connor had given just as many thrashings as he had received.

But this was different.

The painful hunch of Murphy's shoulders and the way he guarded his left side, arm held close to his body, tore at Connor's heart. His twin's bright, forgiving smile and the compassion in his eyes only made it worse.

_I don't deserve your altruism. _

The apology he had been forming stuck in his throat and he choked it back with a swallow of Danae's coffee, unsure which was more bitter.

Murphy looked up at him over the curls of smoke, lifting an eyebrow. He met Connor's eyes, holding his gaze as only a twin could, as only _Murphy_ could.

"Don't," he said, an unfamiliar edge to his voice.

Connor shouldn't have been surprised, but after everything that had happened, and everything that he had _done_, Connor realized that he had been expecting his brother to turn away, to break the bond they shared and leave him behind.

Taking a long pull from his cigarette, already over half finished, Murphy scoffed at him, rolling his eyes, "Don't look at me like that, ye've got 'I'm sorry' written all over yer fuckin' face." His face softened and he put a hand on the back of Connor's neck, squeezing gently. "and I'm telling ye, don't. Ask God for forgiveness if ye have to, Conn, but there's no need ta ask me."

The prickle returned to Connor's eyes as he reached up to place his hand over Murphy's, allowing the action to travel where his words couldn't, wondering again when he had become the younger twin. The bloodied man before him seemed too wise, too calm to be his ever-changing brother.

_I don't deserve you._

The sound of the patio door opening broke the shared moment as they both turned to see Danae in the doorway, a package of what looked like frozen corn in one hand, broccoli in the other.

"I don't have any ice packs," she apologized with a rueful shrug.

Chuckling softly and flicking away the last of his cigarette, Murphy took the frozen vegetables from her. He lobbed the broccoli over his shoulder to Connor, who caught it one handed, pressing the soothing chill against the swollen gash across his forehead.

"Thanks, luv," Murphy said, running a hand down Danae's back, failing to notice the look of distress that flickered across her face. Connor saw it, however, just like he saw the way she pulled out of his brother's arms, cupping her elbows and staring down at her feet.

He frowned at her at the same time Murphy finally realized something was amiss.

"Danae?"

Backing away from them both, Danae shook her head, "I . . ." her voice was weak and she swiped under her eyes before trying again, "clean towels are in the bathroom. I made up the guest room for you both."

Murphy reached out to her, but she stepped out of his grasp, the same wounded, longing expression on her face that Connor remembered from the hospital.

"Good night," she whispered before turning and hurrying back inside.

Watching her retreating form through the glass of the patio door, Murphy heaved a sigh that was more of an oath, and then winced, drawing his arm a little closer to his chest.

"Can fuckin' nothing be simple?"

"Talk ta her," Connor said, softly, "she needs ye now."

To his surprise, Murphy shook his head, "I'm tired, I'm sore, and I could eat the fuckin' lamb o' Jesus through the rungs of a chair. If she can't take me as I am at this moment, then maybe she shouldn't at all."

"Murph –" Connor began, brow furrowing.

Murphy tossed his makeshift icepack onto one of the patio chairs, running a hand through his hair then over his face. "I'm goin' ta clean up," he said, his voice quiet and tense, and slipped through the patio doors, leaving Connor alone in the cooling night air.

Exhaling the smoke in his lungs with a heavy sigh, Connor reached for his rosary, closing his hand into a fist when he remembered that it was no longer there, that it would never be there again, and turned his face to the sky, the prickle behind his eyes finally turning into warmth that slipped down his cheeks.

He wanted to fall to his knees, to genuflect as he prayed as he had done all his life, but his leg refused to support him, each attempt becoming more and more painful. Settling for sinking into the patio chair, he bowed his head and pressed his forehead against his clasped hands

"Please," he whispered, "I know I've no right ta ask ye for anything after what I've done, but please . . ." The wind picked up, still too cool for summer, but perfect for spring, catching Connor's words and sending them spiraling heavenward.

o()o

There was a ring of blood around the tub.

Murphy glanced at it as he toweled the water from his hair, then turned to examine the plethora of bruises that covered his body, wincing at the pain that shot through his ribs and shoulder at the movement, swearing under his breath as it spread around into his back and up into the base of his skull.

He had taken his fair share of beatings at Connor's hand, but this time was different. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the cool press of metal against his temple and hear the rush of blood and water in his ears. He could still see the madness in his twin's eyes and still sense the finely tuned angst that came from coming so dangerously close to death.

He clenched his hands into fists as they began to shake, his strength and composure finally splintering under the pressure. For the moment, it was all right, Connor couldn't see him here, he would never know how hurt Murphy actually was.

Or how frightened.

Sinking to his knees on the tile of Danae's bathroom, resting his elbows on the bathtub like an altar, he allowed the stinging in his eyes to turn into warmth streaming down his cheeks.

And he prayed.

o()o

Danae sat on her bed quietly, her face still wet with tears, but her mind calm for the moment. Spread out around here were several dozen beads, gleaming in the muted lamplight, and a pair of needlenose pliers, still speckled with her blood from last autumn.

She wasn't sure what she was doing, each movement awkward as she twisted and pulled, painstakingly recreating the fragile loops that had been destroyed.

The house was full of what could only be described as 'nonsounds' the numbed silence that comes after something unspeakable has happened, they surrounded Danae, making her eyes well with fresh tears. But she was no stranger to heartache, especially caused by a MacManus, and she refused to be deterred from the task at hand.

As she worked, she prayed.

o()o


	34. Chapter 34

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm glad to hear that everyone is getting their postcards okay, and thanks for all the compliments on my handwriting. :)  
**Nifty Fact of the Day:** Irish children are all taught Gaelic from ages 4 to 18. It's mandatory because, while English is the most predominant language, Gaelic is still the national language of Ireland. Oh the nifty facts I picked up while on vacation!_

o(34)o

Murphy awoke with a start, the sudden movement sending a bolt of agony through his chest and back and he sucked in a curse between his teeth, curling around the injured ribs.

In the daybed above him, Connor moaned low in his throat, the sound soft and aggrieved. The hand that was hanging over the mattress twitched as his brother shifted uneasily in his sleep.

Sitting up and pressing a hand against his side, Murphy frowned at his twin. " Conn?"

Receiving another pained moan in reply, he reached out to shake Connor gently. " Conn? Connor?"

Abruptly, Connor's eyes snapped open, wide and blank, still staring at whatever apparition still had him in its nightmarish grip. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles going white, and the diminutive muscle in his jaw worked furiously.

"Connor, listen ta me, listen ta Murphy now. Everything is all right."

Connor heaved out a breath and shuddered, still asleep in spite of his urgings and Murphy could see the gooseflesh that had risen on his brother's arms.

Cupping Connor's cheek, feeling the cold sweat beneath his palm, Murphy tried again, "Connor listen ta me, ye need to wake up," he said, his tone the perfect echo of Connor's own voice on the numerous occasions he had soothed Murphy out of a nightmare. The low, comforting lilt had always worked wonders on the darker MacManus, and now Murphy saw that it worked just as well on the lighter twin.

Blinking several times, Connor focused on him and they stared at each other in silence.

After a single moment and a thousand unspoken questions and answers, Connor sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the gash across his forehead. "Christ," he whispered weakly, leaning into Murphy's touch, "fuck."

Despite the warm night, Murphy could feel the fine tremors running through his twin's body and grappled for a blanket to toss over both their shoulders. "Want ta talk about it?"

Connor shook his head, huddling under the comforter, "I don't even want ta fuckin' think about it."

Murphy nodded his understanding and moved to settle a little more comfortably next to his brother, allowing Connor to slouch against him.

"Murph?"

"Aye?"

In the darkness, Connor's voice was thick and uneasy, "Ye're all right aren't ye?"

Murphy blinked at him, "Of course I am."

"Promise me." He had heard the tone often enough to know that it was supposed to be resolute and authoritative, but in his brother's current state it came out anything but.

'Right, right, fine," he soothed, "I promise."

"Mean it."

"_I promise_, ye fuckin' eejit, stop lookin' at me like that already. I'm fine." Murphy gave his brother an affectionate nudge, and mussed his already disheveled hair. "Right as the mail, as Doc would say."

Connor snorted. "Fuckin' Doc," he muttered.

Murphy grinned, pleased at the hint of a smile he could hear in his twin's voice, "Fit as a pancake? Alive as all the tea in China? A healthy mind in a gift horse's mouth?"

"All right, all right," Connor's quiet chuckle was a welcome sound, dispersing some of the cloying heaviness left in the aftermath of his nightmare. He gave Murphy a shove, "I get yer fuckin' point already,"

"Although," Murphy said, rubbing the last of the bleariness from his eyes, knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep tonight, "I could use a smoke."

Beside him, Connor gave a halfhearted laugh, his head falling to rest against Murphy's shoulder, "Amen ta that."

o()o

They found Danae curled up in one of her patio chairs, sleeping soundly a long-cold cup of tea abandoned in front of her on the table.

Murphy barely spared her a glance, crossing his arms across his chest before turning to look up at the night sky.

"Pretty rough day for her," Connor murmured, noticing that even in sleep, Danae's expression was still troubled.

"Pretty fuckin' rough day for us all," Murphy snapped back, and then sighed, bowing his head. "Just pass me a fuckin' smoke, will ye?"

Offering his twin the pack, Connor bent down in front of Danae, slipping an arm under her knees.

"Murphy?" She murmured sleepily, brow furrowing, pulling away slightly before curling against him.

"It isn't. T'is just Connor." He bit back a smile, too amused to be injured by her disappointed sigh. "Come on," he said softly.

Murphy turned to frown at him, "What he fuck are ye doing?"

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doin'? I'm takin'her ta bed." Connor said, wincing as he lifted her out of the chair. "Get the door for me."

Opening the glass door with a scowl and a slam, Murphy stepped away from them both as though they were poison, recrossing his arms.

Connor rolled his eyes at his twin, "Don't fuckin' give me that look," he reprimanded, "she can't very well sleep out here in the fuckin' patio chair."

As the door shut behind him, he though he heard his twin mutter something about not seeing why not, and shook his head. When Murphy set his mind toward something, he could be as stubborn as an ox about it.

Carefully making his way through the darkened house, he laid Danae on her bed pulling the covers over her and chuckling as she promptly kicked them off.

"Connor?" she murmured sleepily, drawing her knees up.

"Aye?"

"Are you okay? I mean, I know you're not _okay_ okay, but . . ."

"I'm fine," he interjected softly, hoping that she wouldn't be able to spot the lie in his voice.

With a sigh, Danae curled around a pillow, "Is Murphy okay?"

The memory of his dream surfaced like a corpse out of still water, and for a moment, all Connor could see was pale, cold skin against white satin and dark mahogany. A wave of gooseflesh swept over his arms, making the hairs stand on end, and a shudder crawled up his spine.

" Conn?" Danae's eyes were open now, and she was frowning up at him.

"We're both fine," he said quickly, patting her hand, "don't worry yourself about us."

She offered him a wry smile, eyebrow arching. "Then who would I worry about?"

Connor chuckled and, on impulse, pressed a chaste kiss against Danae's temple. "I don't know. Get some sleep now."

"You too."

"We will, luv."

Outside, he found Murphy leaning over the rotting wood of the patio, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers as he stared into the warm summer night. He didn't turn around as Connor slid the door shut.

"Ye need ta talk ta her," he said, picking up the abandoned pack of smokes and tapping one out for himself. "She's scared, Murph."

Murphy flicked the ash off of what little was left of his cigarette, "I know. I know she's scared," he said, "what I don't know, is what ta do about it." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "She won't even fuckin' look at me."

Sighing softly, letting his head fall back with the first gratifying pull from his smoke, Connor chose his next words carefully.

"Make her see, Murphy. What ye have is too fuckin' important ta take for granted like the two of ye are doin'."

Without warning, the image of clear gray eyes filled his mind, her smile bright and warm, and her smell like summer and jasmine as she stretched up on tip-toe up to kiss him.

The memory was like a brick to the chest, smashing through and leaving a giant hole in its wake. It felt as if he hadn't thought of her in ages and at the same time he hadn't thought of anything else.

"Life's too fragile ta play the games ye are." His tone came out choked and Murphy turned sharply to look at him, brow furrowed in worry. Swiping quickly under his eyes, Connor tried to arrange a smile on his face, but it wavered and fell before it had even formed.

"Fuck," he uttered, blinking hard against the stinging behind his eyes, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

Without a word, Murphy flicked the remains of his cigarette away and came to stand next to him, placing a warm hand on the back of his neck.

o()o

Dolly was a mess.

His suit was rumpled and stained, and even the copious amounts of Brill Cream he was prone to using couldn't tame his hair, odd strands sticking out at ungodly angles.

Standing amidst the slaughter, Smecker removed the headphones from his ears and lifted an eyebrow at the dishevled detective.

"Just crawl out of the clothes hamper, Dolly?" he asked, taking a leisurely sip of his café latte.

Popping a piece of dingy yellow gum out of its packaging and adding it to the wad he was already chewing, Dolly grunted noncommittally and made a vague gesture toward the dead men at his feet.

"To early for this shit," he mumbled, followed by a longing look around the room. "No coffee?"

"Crime never sleeps Detective," Smecker said, smirking, "and apparently it lacks the common courtesy to make coffee too."

The comment earned him a disparaging look as Dolly squatted down to examine the closest corpse. After a quick glance, his eyes flew open, all signs of sleepiness gone and the look he gave Smecker said it all.

_The Saints. _

Smecker acknowledged Dolly with a judicious nod, "You'll notice that all of these men are members of the _Sacerdotes de la Calle_. You can tell by the tattoos on their wrists"

No surprise there, the agent thought grimly, the Saints had been after these bastards since last fall, hell, probably before that.

But the next part . . . that was a different story entirely. He chose his words cautiously, knowing that, while the rest of these rednecks wouldn't understand what he was talking about, Dolly most certainly would.

"You'll also notice that most of the men were felled with one shot only. The ballistics report informs me that only one gun was used."

"Just one?" Dolly repeated, frowning, moving from body to body throughout the gore-soaked conference room, "that's not right at all."

The statement was completely accurate in Smecker's opinion, and one gun was the part that made the entire crime scene somehow wrong. He had expected retribution from the Saints, especially if his theory about their connection with Mrs. Kennsett was right, but for there to be only one?

A brief flicker of worry for the brothers' well-being passed through the agent; he'd been working with the MacManuses for a long time and could think of only a handful of things that could ever manage to separate them.

Death was at the top of that list.

"Hey!" Dolly's astonished shout jolted Smecker from his dark thoughts. "Get an ambulance down here, right fuckin' now!"

"What are you goin' on about?" One of the police officers paused in his report taking to shoot Dolly an exasperated glare as he walked over, "Someone spike your coffee or what?"

"Are you fuckin' deaf or somethin'?" Dolly yelled to the officer, giving him a formidable shove, "I said, get a goddamn ambulance, this one's still alive."

"That's impossible," came another beat cop's voice from across the room, the tone just as bored and skeptical as the first one's, "I examined these assholes myself."

"Well you did a piss poor job," Dolly shot back, "Now are you going to call an ambulance, or am I going to ram your radio so far up your ass you'll be getting FM in your fucking fillings?"

All around Smecker there was a blur of activity as every officer on the scene erupted into motion, but all the agent could see was the man that Dolly was squatted next to. He'd seen dozens of pictures since starting the Street Priests' case and a thousand dossier photos flipped through his brain trying match a picture with a name.

Cell phone already in his hand, 911 answering the call faster than any of the officers could get to their radios, Smecker froze as a name and face clicked in his mind.

_Eur-friggin-reka. _

"Oh shit," he muttered.

"Sir? Please state the nature of your emergency?" The 911 operator's voice was calm and collected. Smecker wished he could be so cool.

"This is FBI Agent Paul Smecker, I need an ambulance at the corner of Eastman and Central for a gunshot wound to the . . ." he paused, stretching to see the body, "to the chest."

Ending the call, ambulance on its way Smecker pushed his way through the sudden throng of beat cops that were crowding around Dolly and the miracle man. Looking down, seeing clearly what he had already known, he could only shake his head.

"Arturo Mendoza. What are the friggin' chances?"

o()o


	35. Chapter 35

o()o

**_Author's Note:_ **_Redone because it sucked just that bad. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but its better than it was and if I don't move on, I'll never get anywhere else. Sorry for the crap chapter, guys.  
__**Nifty Fact for the Day:** Loopers is irish slang for nuts or crazy. _Ad Nauseam_ is a latin term that means 'to a sickening degree._

o(35)o

Murphy knew Danae was avoiding him, he knew that she was probably trying to come to terms with having Connor and himself dropkicked back into her life, and that she most likely needed space.

But he really didn't give a fuck.

They hadn't exchanged more than a scarce few words since he had come to her in the hospital, but there sure as fuck wasn't any mistaking her sudden unease around him.

Each awkward moment that had replaced their normally comfortable interactions had slithered under his skin, all of them combining into a writing knot in the pit of his stomach. At this point he would crawl on his belly through broken glass if she asked, anything to make that putrid sensation that thrummed through him him go away.

Plus, he missed her. He missed the sound of her laugh and her wry smile. He missed the way she felt in his arms, and the taste of her mouth. The thoughts sent a spasm of frustration through him. They had been so fucking close, only to have it fall to pieces right before his eyes.

Leaning against the ungodly orange of her apartment building, trying to soothe is increasingly ragged nerves with yet another cigarette, he waited for her to come home from work. Then they would talk and he would make her decide.

He hoped that they would work things out, but the realist in him seemed to know better.

Try as he might, Murphy couldn't blame her for no longer wanting to be a part of his life. He had nothing to offer her but bloodshed, killing, and endless lonely nights. She deserved better than that.

Inside the apartment, Connor was asleep on the sofa, finally nodding off only after the sun had risen to keep his nightmares at bay.

Instead of time being a gentle thing that healed all wounds, it seemed to be a powerful tide, eroding Connor until, eventually, there would be nothing left.

His twin was reluctant to eat or sleep and refused to go to church. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only a few precious words. More than once, Murphy had caught Connor scrubbing his hands in the bathrrom sink until they were red and raw. There were now a handful of washcloths hidden in the back of Danae's refrigerator to soothe the damage done to Connor's hands by the scrubbing and scalding water after such in incident.

Through an unspoken, mutual agreement, both of their black duffels had been stashed in the closet of Danae's guest room and not looked at since.

Everything was going to hell in a handbasket and Murphy didn't like it one bit. Something had to be done.

Replacing the cigarette in his mouth with the edge of his thumb, worrying the nail between his teeth, he glanced again at the empty lot in front of him, wishing Danae would hurry the fuck up so he could get this over with.

He almost missed her, so intent on watching the front gate that he didn't hear her come up behind him. She tried to brush by him, avoiding his gaze, but he grabbed her arm gently.

"We have ta talk," he said.

"There's nothing to talk about," she replied, shaking her head.

"The fuck there isn't! Danae, ye've been acting different ever since we left the hospital and I want ta know why."

"Please, Murphy. I didn't want to talk about this with Connor yesterday and I don't want to talk about it with you now.

"Connor talked ta you?"

"He stopped me on the way to work,"

"Why?"

She made a frustrated gesture with her hands. "Just let it go, okay?"

"How the fuck can I let it go when ye've barely spoken ta me in a fuckin' week?" He took fortifying drag off of his cigarette and continued, "How the fuck can I make it better if ye don't let me know what's wrong?"

"Murphy," she stopped, looking up at him, and Murphy was taken aback at the pain in her eyes. "Please," she whispered, and he reached out, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her.

She stood motionless in the circle of his embrace for a moment, and then he felt her arms go around his waist and her head rest against his shoulder "Can we not talk about it now?"

He wanted to tell her no, that they would talk about it now, and that they would talk about it until it was resolved one way or the other.

But she was finally in his arms and he didn't want to do anything to make her pull away. Not if this might be his last chance to hold her.

He smoothed her hair away from her face, tucking an errant strand behind her ear and looked down at her, hoping the smile on his face didn't look as hollow as it felt.

"Sure luv," he said softly. "We don't have ta talk about it now."

o()o

He smelled like smoke and soap and the subtly spicy cologne he favored. The scent was cool, heady, and distinctly Murphy.

If Danae closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that he was whole and healthy, and not the bloody mess he actually was. Danae had spent a lot of time in the emergency room and she had seen some corpses that looked better than he did at the moment.

The idea sent a chill skittering up her spine and she felt Murphy stir, ducking his head to look down at her.

"Danae?"

Before she could stop them, the words were tumbling out in a rush of impassioned babble.

"When will it be enough? You've been assaulted, beaten into a bloody pulp, _shot_, what's it going to take before you stop?"

She shut her eyes tightly againt the tears welling there and sucked in a deep breath, attempting to regain some of her composure. But the effort was futile at best, the floodgates had been opened and there was no stopping now.

"I can't help but wonder if you're going to end up dead before you ever reach that point, and I can't sit around waiting for that to happen. I can't watch you die."

"Hey," Murphy's voice was gentle, and when she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see him grinning down at her, eyes sparkling.

"What?"

"Is that what this whole thing has been about?" he asked, releasing her long enough to take her hand, running his thumb gently over her knuckles, "a split lip and a couple of bruises?"

"A split . . ?" she gaped at him incredulously, "Murphy, have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"It's healing up just fine." He shrugged, wincing, "As far as beatings go, it's a wee bit worse than Connor usually gives. There was this one time in gradeschool though . . . "

"_Connor_ did this to you? Our Connor?"

"Aye," a new voice came from the door and Danae and Murphy turned as one to see Connor leaning against the doorway, his face grim. "I did."

"That's insane." Danae wasn't sure which brother to glare at first, "He's the reason you look like you've been hit by a big rig?"

"It's kind of a long story." Murphy said.

"No, it isn't," Connor interjected. "When Mai . . . when the Street Priests followed us home that night, I took things far too far." He grimaced, scuffing designs into the dirt with his boots, "_ad nauseam_."

"The news," Danae suddenly felt sick. She'd been following the gruesome stories, hoping that whoever had been responsible for such cruelty was caught and brought to justice.

In the back of her mind, she had almost hoped that the Saints would find the media-dubbed 'Saddist' and put a stop to his barbarism, for good.

Score one point for irony.

Looking from one beaten brother to the other, Danae felt the queasy stirring in the pit of her stomach increase, words from the newscasts surfacing in her mind.

_Sadistic. Ruthless. Brutal. Heartless. Inhuman. _None of these words seemed to describe the Connor she knew so well. A single glance at Murphy, however, was unadulterated testimony as to how wrong she was. What kind of man would that to his own brother?

Connor swallowed and nodded. "I wasn't thinking very clearly. I guess you could say that Murph brought me to my senses."

"With his fists," she stated flatly, realization making her chest clench. Suddenly Murphy's embrace was much less comforting and much more disquieting. "You did this to each other?"

"What's a brother for if not beatin' the shite out o' ye when ye need it?" Murphy's tone was light, but Danae could feel the sudden tension vibrating through his body, and wondered if he really thought he was fooling anyone.

"Aye," Connor said, still staring at the toe of his boot.

"We're healing up just fine," Murphy tried again, "probably gotten worse in a few bar scuffles. Aye, Conn?"

Connor glanced up sharply, gazing over Danae's head, and she knew, without looking, that there was a silent conversation happening between the brothers.

One that had nothing to do with bar scuffles.

An awkward silence fell over the patio, full implication and unsaid words. Feeling like an interloper, she moved to pull away, but Murphy's arms tightened around her.

"No need for that," he murmured to her, still holding Connor's gaze.

After a moment, Connor looked away, ending the wordless exchange with a slight nod. "Aye," he said softly, more to himself than anyone.

"Ye know what we need ta do?" Murphy asked suddenly.

"What's that?" Connor said, still lost in whatever thoughts had taken hold of him.

"We need ta get out and fuckin' relax a bit."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Danae said, at the same time Connor began to protest.

"Shut it, the both o' ye," Murphy interjected firmly, holding up a hand to stop their objections. "What we need right now is ta be together and be a family. We're fallin' apart here and I'm not just going ta fuckin' sit back and let that happen."

Danae looked up at him, then over to Connor as the lighter haired man muttered something about being the younger twin, a tiny smile quirking his lips.

Rolling his eyes skyward at the comment, Murphy offered them both an imploring smile, "C'mon, it's well past the time for somethin' other than bloodshed."

After a moment, Connor blew out a deep breath and nodded, "Ye're right, I'm going fuckin' loopers in this apartment."

Murphy's grin widened, his eyes alight, "What do ye say, Danae," he said, "join us for a drink?"

o()o


	36. Chapter 36

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I'm celebrating my birthday this weekend, and since I can't get cupcakes to all of you out there in PCLand, I hope an early post and some drunken MacManus fun will do. :) Just as an aside, 35 has undergone a few revisions for sucktitude, I hope it's a little better now.   
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**_ _Wojus is Irish slang for poor or bad. A scrubber is a woman with low morals, and to pull is a vague verb meaning to have success with a member of the opposite sex. Brown, of course,means drunk._

o(36)o

Smoothing her top nervously, Danae gave her hair one last judicious twitch in the mirror. Her reflection stared dutifully back at her, worry evident in its eyes. She'd never been much for bars or drinking.

"Are ye about done?" Connor's voice echoed through the hall, "We're not getting' any younger out here."

Danae took one more fortifying breath before stepping out into the living room, smiling when she saw both of them facing away from her, scuffling, their normally array of insults flying.

"Okay, I think I'm ready."

Giving his brother one last cuff to the back of the head, Murphy straightened turning to look at her. "It's about fuckin' time, what were ye . . . holy fuck."

Connor turned and gave her a grin, looking more like his old self than she had seen in a long time. He elbowed his brother, carefully avoiding Murphy's still-healing ribs, "That's eejit for 'ye look nice, Danae. In case ye didn't know."

Returning his grin, a little of her uncertainty slipping away as she watched them wrestle and tease, Danae reached for her jacket and slipped it on. "Let's go."

o()o

The bar was nicer than she had expected it to be. More of a long hallway than anything, the actual bar was on one side and booths lined the other, opening up into a small dance floor and a couple of pool tables near the back. An ancient dartboard graced the wall behind her, along with several hand-made posters announcing upcoming events.

". . . and so Seamus says to the devil, he says I'm mightily pleased ta meet ye, sir, I'm married ta yer sister!" Connor hooted, his face flushed with laughter.

Gasping in a breath, only to have it come out again in a rush of giggles, Danae was certain that she had never laughed so hard in her life as she had that night.

With Murphy feeling better and some of the worry lines around Connor's eyes finally fading away, both brothers were in high spirits, fueled by pints of dark Guinness and shots of whiskey. For the first time in a week they were laughing and joking, dispelling much of the awkward quiet that had settled around them, and giving her a glimpse of the MacManus brothers she knew and loved.

Chuckling, Murphy shook his head, digging into the depths of his pocket to pull out a cigarette. "Christ, between the two o' ye I think I've heard the most wojus jokes ever fuckin' told."

"Ye're just jealous because ye couldn't tell one ta save yer fuckin' soul." Connor retorted, grinning as he reaching into his brother's pocket and nabbed a cigarette of his own, deftly dodging Murphy's swatting hands.

"Fuck ye," Murphy said, smiling around the filtered end of his cigarette, cupping his hand and flicking open his lighter, unaware of Connor mirroring the motion beside him.

Danae took a long look at them both, watching as they flipped their lighters shut and took a long pull from their cigarettes, each action in perfect sync with the others.

The low lighting of the bar almost fully concealed the bruises that marred their features and she was surprised at how much they seemed to have miraculously healed in only a few short hours.

She wished her heart were faring quite so well.

"I've got the next round," Murphy announced blowing smoke up toward the ceiling. Danae watched as he left to weave a slightly unsteady path towards the bar.

"How're ye doin?" asked Connor, ambling around the pool table to stand next to her, cue stick stretched casually across his shoulders.

"Better than I thought I would be," she said with a wistful smile. "This is a nice place."

"That's not what I meant," he replied, his voice turning low and serious. "Ye know what I'm talking about."

"It's been a rough week." She admitted softly, staring at the green felt of the pool table, and was surprised when Connor reached out and slipped an arm around her.

"It has at that. Listen, Danae, I've noticed the changes in ye since we got back from the hospital, and I just want ta ask ye a favor."

Danae tensed, still not quite sure how to feel about the man beside her. It seemed an impossible task to reconcile the kindhearted, upbeat, Connor she knew with the brutal stories of the 'sadist' that surrounded her.

"What favor?" she asked cautiously.

"If yer goin' ta break me brother's heart, do it clean. Don't hurt him more than necessary, it's the last thing he needs."

Taken aback by his bluntness as well as his insight, Danae turned looked at Connor sharply, " Conn, hurting Murphy is the last thing in the world that I want to do. I just want . . ." She sighed, "I don't know what I want."

Connor gave her a gentle squeeze, "I don't mean ta sound harsh, luv, but ye need ta make up ye're mind, because the longer you tarry, the harder it is on ye both."

Nodding guiltily as she looked away, Danae froze, staring, as she spotted Murphy standing at the bar, talking to another woman.

The woman was, in a word, gorgeous. Her face and hair were professionally made up, her clothes were obviously designer, and every move she made exuded grace and poise.

Danae hated her at once.

She watched as the woman chatted with Murphy, reaching out to touch him lightly now and again, caressing his sleeve or patting his hand, and was surprised at the forceful stab of jealousy she felt.

All of her uncertainty vanished like magic as she watched the beautiful creature across the bar charm the man she loved and a single thought ran furiously through her mind as she stared at the two of them.

_He's mine! _

Connor chuckled at her as he chalked his cue. "I think ye know exactly what ye want," he said. "Now, ye'd better go and lay claim ta yer property afore someone else does."

For a moment Danae wanted to argue that Murphy wasn't hers and make some halfhearted excuse about how he could do as he pleased. But as she watched him nodding, listening attentively to whatever the other woman was saying, she realized that she wasn't ready to let him go. Not now, not ever.

It was like a giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders as the decision was made. No matter what they did or would do in the future, they were still Murphy and Connor and she still loved them both.

Giving Connor a wry smile, she nodded, emboldened by her sudden conclusion and the possessiveness that accompanied it, "You're absolutely right."

Raising his mug to her in mock salute, he grinned at her widely. "Aren't I fuckin' always?"

Walking up behind Murphy, she reached for a basket of peanuts that sat on the bar, allowing her other hand to slip over his waist, down to someplace it almost certainly shouldn't be.

She had the satisfaction of feeling him jump and leaned closer, pressing a light kiss against the sensitive skin behind his ear.

"Sorry," she murmured, "I just wanted to grab some nuts."

He turned to look at her, eyes wide and startled and she gave him an unabashed smile holding up the basket for him to see.

"Thanks," she tossed over her shoulder, already moving away, swaying her hips deliberately, and ignoring the other woman's affronted cry.

Making her way back to the pool table, she offered the basket of peanuts to Connor, who was doubled over with laughter, leaning on his pool cue for support.

"I don't know what ye did ta him," he whooped, "but the look on his fuckin' face was priceless! That's the funniest fuckin' thing I've ever fuckin' seen!"

His humor was contagious and Danae joined him, laughing all the harder when he threw an arm around her shoulders, tousling her hair and making a mess of her carefully created curls.

"And look at her!" she gasped, "If looks could kill I'd be dead on the floor right now!"

The girl's seething expression sent them into new fits of hilarity, leaning on each other they laughed.

"Yer lucky me hands are full right now," Murphy's voice said just behind her as he gave her shoulder a short, nipping kiss. "Doin' something like that ta a man in public, and I thought ye were a nice girl."

Danae tried to look indignant, protesting that she certainly was a nice girl, but Connor beat her to the punch.

"I thought ye'd be too engrossed with that scrubber ta notice our Danae," he chided in between chuckles.

"I'd have ta be fuckin' dead not ta notice what she fuckin' did!" Murphy retorted shooting her meaningful look.

Connor and Danae sobered, exchanging a glance, but that was the extent of their remorse as Connor snorted, sending them both into renewed bouts of laughter

With a long suffering sigh, Murphy offered one of the mugs he was holding to his brother. "Guinness fer ye."

Connor took the offered mug, lifting it briefly in appreciation before taking a hearty swig.

Murphy returned the salute with the second mug before draining half and setting it on the pool table, "Guinness fer me."

Raising an incredulous eyebrow, he offered her the last glass in his hand, "and a _Sprite_ fer the vixen here."

Laughing, Danae set her drink aside and leaned over the pool table, carefully lining up her shot like Murphy had shown her. A sharp smack to her backside made her jump and the cue ball flew off the table, narrowly missing Connor's head.

Connor leaned slightly out of the way, watching the ball as it whizzed by. "All right ye two," he said taking another swallow of his beer, unfazed, "knock it the fuck off. Ye can have a good pull later after we get home."

Danae felt her cheeks getting hot and Murphy chuckled. "Aye, that we can."

Picking up Danae's glass, Connor took a tentative sip and made a face at her. "Fer Christ's fuckin' sake," he said, "Ye _are_ still drinkin' fuckin' Sprite." Turning he gave Murphy a disbelieving look. "I'm halfway ta fuckin' brown and she's still drinkin' fuckin' Sprite!"

Danae took her cup from his hands, "So?"

"Why the fuck aren't ye drinkin', girl? That's what we fuckin' came here ta do."

Murphy looked over at her, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, suddenly sharing his brother's desire to answer this burning question.

"I don't really know what to order," she said shrugging, "I don't drink."

"Well, we'll order for ye, then," said Connor grinning as he slung an arm around Murphy's neck. "We have impeccable taste."

Murphy looked over at his twin, and then rolled his eyes, ducking out from under Connor's arm to walk over to her.

"Ye don't have ta drink if ye don't want ta," he said, "but I want ye ta know that Conn and I'll make sure you stay safe if ye do."

He looked so sincere that she couldn't help but grin at him. "One drink," she said and had the satisfaction of hearing his pleased chuckle.

"Just one," he agreed, pressing a kiss against her temple. Looking up from her, he frowned at his brother. "Where the fuck are ye goin'?"

Still chuckling, Connor raised his eyebrows, eyes sparkling. "I thought I'd go and have a piss, if that's all right with ye."

"Try not to get mobbed by beautiful women on the way." Danae said, and Connor waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, grinning.

"What can I say?" he replied, pausing to steady himself on a barstool, "Women love a man with an accent."

"Yes, yes, they do," she agreed, nodding sagely.

Shaking his head, his grin resurfacing, Murphy pressed a warm hand into the small of Danae's back.

"Can I buy ye a drink?" He asked, his accent thicker than normal making each word sound as though it were coated in cream.

Danae felt her heart speed up and wondered if it was from the exaggerated lilt or the look in Murphy's eyes.

"I'd love one," she murmured, "thank you."

o()o

The nights 'one drink' slowly turned into two, and after the third, Murphy realized that alcohol made Danae sleepy.

She had propped her head up on her hand and dozed peacefully, smiling as he and Connor had played pool and gotten pleasantly buzzed, enjoying the night and each other's company.

Connor had wanted to get completely scuttered, but Murphy had declined, nodding his head toward the table where Danae had drifted off. "I promised I'd take care of her."

"We'll take care of her," Connor had corrected, looking over to the table. Then he had met Murphy's eyes and snorted. "Fuckin' lightweight."

Hearing the affection in his brother's voice, Murphy had grinned, slapping him amiably on the back, pleased, although not surprised, that his brother understood.

Now, through the haze of smoke, he looked at Connor across their table. His brother had sobered, staring pensively into his beer.

"I need ta go ta church," he said softly, "I've been gone far too long."

Murphy nodded solemnly, catching his brother's mood as he so often did, "Ye do, aye."

"And I need ta go ta the hospital," he said, "I need to go see Mai--" he stopped, seeming to fight some internal battle. Winning at last, after a swallow of beer and a drag from his cigarette, he took a deep breath and continued. "I need ta go see Maire. I owe her that."

Murphy watched him, moved by the strength and courage he knew Connor was struggling to hold on to. "Aye, I'll go with ye if ye want, Danae too."

"I need ta find Sasha, make sure she's in good hands."

"We'll look into it first thing, I'll bet Dolly can tell us something about it."

Connor nodded unsteadily taking another draught of his beer before continuing. "I don't want ta fuckin' fight with ye Murph."

Murphy blinked, nonplussed, "We aren't fightin', Conn. Are ye feelin' all right?"

"After everything that's happened, I need ta know that we're okay." Connor said, and Murphy could see that his hand had begun to shake around his beer, making the dark liquid tremble within the glass confines of the mug.

Reaching out, Murphy rested a steadying hand on his brother's forearm, dipping his head to meet Connor's eyes. "Sure you're feelin' all right?"

"I can't go on with the mission, Murphy. I fuckin' _can't. _Every time I close my fuckin' eyes . . ." he broke off, shuddering, running a hand through his hair. "But I don't want things ta fuckin' be bollixed up between us."

Murphy squeezed his arm compassionately. "It's all right, Conn," he said softly, surprised to find that he meant it.

His twin wanted to give up their calling, to try to live a normal life and put all the horror that came along with being a Saint behind him. He wanted to heal and maybe have the chance at being happy again, even if it meant he was no longer a member of God's chosen few.

Murphy was strangely comfortable with that.

"I don't want to abandon you," Connor was still talking, becoming more and more distraught with each word.

Glancing from his twin, so much older than he had been when they took up the mission, over to Danae, sleeping soundly, her face peaceful despite the din of the bar, Murphy could almost feel the weight lifting off his shoulders as he made the decision.

Fighting the smile that was tugging at his lips, feeling better than he had in fucking _months_, he waited until Connor met his gaze again and took a long swallow of his beer.

"Then I'll just have ta come with ye won't I?"

o()o


	37. Chapter 37

o()o

_**Author's Note: **I haven't said it for a while, but thanks to the ever-amazing Archerlove for her mad beta skills. You are the champion of all things beta, sweetie, and I'd be lost without you!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day: **Snared Rapid is Irish slang for being caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing._ Mataré usted _is Spanish for 'I'll kill you'.  
_

o(37)o

He had never held a gun before.

Sitting in the hospital's empty chapel, he turned the weapon over and over in his hands feeling its solidity and smoothness. It was heavier than he thought it would be, but its weight was quickly becoming a comfort.

His _tio _had promised to teach him to shoot once he was old enough, but the lesson had never come about. He suspected it was a father's attempt to keep his son safe and innocent, always telling him that the time wasn't right yet.

Well, time had run out for them both now.

Staring down at the polished metal, watching the light from the faux stained glass windows reflect off of the barrel in a slick rainbow, his thoughts were the same as they had been for over a week.

Down the hall, his _tio_ was struggling to survive.

He could barely stand to be in the room with Arturo. It hurt him to look at the once formidable figure, now achingly sallow and frail amongst the multitude of medical junk keeping him in a state that only a _tonto_ would consider alive.

If he had still believed in mercy, he would have thought that a bullet to the brain might have been kinder than the torture his adopted father was enduring. What was another bullet and another spray of blood? Hell, why not empty the entire clip to make sure the job was done properly?

So long as he saved one for himself of course.

But he didn't believe in mercy, that luxury had been ripped from him and the truth was a handful of burning salt in the wound left behind.

It was, he reflected, all a lie, and the mercy of death was the biggest untruth of them all. Death wasn't a tunnel of light or eternal peace, or the faces of loved ones, those were fairytales told to children.

He knew all too well that real death was a _pesadilla_, a nightmare that came in vicious spurts of blood and the gruesome rattle of the final breath; it was the overpowering stench that was still trapped in his nose and the warm slickness that had soaked into his jeans and then crusted black and stiff.

There was nothing merciful about being the sole survivor of a bloodbath and there was absolutely nothing merciful about death. Quick or slow, slaughtered with pennies in your eyes or left brain-dead in some nameless hospital, it only mattered if you were the one left behind.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he watched them die, each time becoming more painful and more graphic than the last. It was the reason he cradled the gun in his hands now, taking solace in the knowledge that salvation was only a bullet away.

Ending his prayers and concealing the gun, he rose to his feet and made his way toward the exit, staring at the hole in the toe of his shoe as he walked, wondering when it had gotten there.

Dipping his fingers into the basin of holy water and genuflecting, he didn't even notice another person in the hospital chapel with him until he ran into a dark tee-shirt.

"Careful there, boyo."

He looked up, an apology on his tongue, and froze. Blue eyes stared back at him, wide and startled. They were so different from the way he remembered them, so unlike the menacing pair that turned his waking thoughts sour and haunted his nightmares.

Righteous fury warred with simple, undiluted, terror, turning his mind into chaotic mush. But his body reacted perfectly and the gun was in his hands seemingly by magic, pointing toward those eyes, readying to close them forever.

Through the anarchy in his brain, a single word managed to force its way out.

"You!"

o()o

"You!"

Two steps ahead of Connor, forgoing the customary genuflection at the chapel entrance, Danae turned around at the surprised shout and felt her heart miss a beat.

Connor stood, holy water dripping from his fingertips, every muscle tense as he stared at the gun pointing toward his chest. He chanced a sidelong look at her, "get the fuck out o' here, Danae. Now."

Swallowing the fear that was suddenly thick in her throat, she glanced around the small chapel. Simple, unpadded pews lined the center aisle and an altar graced the front of the chapel where a large, plaster Jesus gazed down at her, unmoved by her predicament. But the only exit was the one she had come in, the one Connor and his assailant were currently blocking. She was trapped.

"Put the gun down," Connor said, his voice low and angry.

The reply was tremulous and heated; speaking what Danae could only guess was Spanish. Connor stiffened at whatever had been said, his hand clenching into a fist.

"I could ask you the same thing," he shot back in English.

"_Assino_!"

. Danae couldn't understand Connor's retort, but his words were a perfect match to the incensed Spanish.

"_Mataré usted_!" The angry words were followed by the stomach dropping sound of the gun being cocked.

Danae heard Connor's surprised gasp, as the kid lunged away from him, clamping an unyielding hand around her wrist, yanking her from where she stood. The man, no more than a kid, really, sneered at her as he wrenched her close to him, wrapping an arm around her neck.

"Better yet," he snarled to Connor, "I'll destroy your _familia_, just like you slaughtered mine."

There was the press of cool metal against her temple and Connor froze, eyes wide. "No," he breathed.

Danae's fear congealed into terror, making her stomach constrict and her hands turn icy. _Oh, Connor,_ she thought disjointedly, _what have you done? _

"Not so much fun on the other side, is it _Malnacido_? Now, you will know how it feels. How _I _feel."

" Conn? They didn't have any coffee so I got ye a . . ." Behind them, Murphy jolted to a halt, soda bottle slipping from his fingers and rolling, unnoticed across the chapel floor. "Oh fuck."

"Take another step and I'll blow her head off." The kid warned, jamming the gun painfully against Danae's head.

She felt her lower lip begin to tremble and bit down on it, hard, keeping her eyes on Connor and Murphy, refusing to give the kid the satisfaction of her fear.

Connor glanced over his shoulder, his face obscured by shadow and Danae saw Murphy give an almost imperceptible shake of his head, answering some question that only he was privy to.

"Please," she whispered to her attacker, "don't do this."

"Shut up!" The gun began to waver and the kid jammed it into her temple with renewed force, making her cringe. "Shut the hell up!"

"I fuckin' warned you once," Connor ground out, turning back to face them, eyes slitted and dark.

"Screw you and your warnings!" the kid cried, "see how much good they do when her brains are all over the floor."

The kid pulled the trigger, but the only sound was a harmless click. There was a pregnant moment of silence, and then the room erupted into motion.

Connor slammed the kid against the entryway with bone-jarring force, his face flushed and contorted with fury. The action sent Danae tumbling in the opposite direction where she collided with a row of pews. The impact was enough to make her knees buckle, setting her down hard on the dusty red carpet.

"You little bastard, who the fuck are ye ta threaten me and mine?" Connor spat out, his voice harsh and his accent thick, slamming the kid against the faux stone entryway with bone-jarring force. In the back of her mind, Danae realized that, until now, she had yet to see Connor MacManus truly angry.

It scared the hell out of her.

The gun clattered to the chapel floor where Murphy knelt swiftly and retrieved it, flipping off the safety and at the same time, expertly checked the sights, his expression unreadable.

Coming to stand beside his brother, Murphy leveled the gun at the kid, his free hand resting on Connor's shoulder.

After a moment, Connor's features smoothed out, becoming as blank and dispassionate as his twin's. He looked away from the kid long enough to meet Murphy's gaze, and this time Danae understood the message being sent between the pairs of blue eyes. She froze under the weight of the insight.

"Don't," she wasn't sure if she whispered the word or if she shouted it, either way it fell on deaf ears. Connor and Murphy were speaking together, their voices low and measured, drowning out the kid's frenzied Spanish.

Prayer or poem, Danae wasn't sure, but their words were powerful and evocative, making the hairs on her arms stand up.

"_in nominee patris, et fili, et spiritus sancti._"

She didn't understand the final statement, but knew what it meant just the same.

It was a death sentence.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, turning her face away from the soon-to-be execution, and waited for the Saints to finish what they had started. She hoped she could still look them in the eye after all was said and done.

But instead of the deafening roar of gunfire, there was the muted sound of flesh colliding with flesh. She opened her eyes to see the kid crumpling to the ground, his jaw already swelling from the blow.

Murphy was at her side in an instant, helping her to her feet. His hands skimmed over her, checking for damage. His features were still hard and composed, but Danae could see the anger burning in his eyes and feel the trembling of his hands. He thrummed next to her, a noiseless symphony of furious movement.

In contrast to Murphy's kinetic rage, Connor seemed like a statue, staring down at the unconscious kid.

"Are ye all right," he asked, "did he hurt ye?"

"I'm fine." Her voice seemed too loud in contrast with Connor's low tones and the silent chapel. Reaching out, she caught Murphy's hands, halting his frenetic movements. "I'm fine," she repeated more softly, her tone for him only.

Murphy gave her a quick nod, and then moved away, bringing his hand to his mouth, following his brother's gaze to where the kid lay. "What the fuck are we goin' ta do with him?" he asked around his thumbnail.

Connor didn't move, "We'll leave him here and call the cops, let them deal with it."

Grunting his approval, Murphy cocked his head, moving to the far end of a nearby pew. Bending, he held up the soda bottle he had come in with, "Let's get the fuck out o' here then."

"What about Maire?" Danae asked.

"We shouldn't be here when the police show up," Murphy said, "it's too fuckin' risky with everythin' that's been goin' on."

"I don't want her ta see me like this, at any rate," said Connor as he turned to face her, holding up a shaking hand, the knuckles split and bleeding.

His expression was closed, his eyes as unreadable as Murphy's, but his face was ashen, and the sweat beading along his hairline belied his indifference.

"We'll come back whenever you're ready," Murphy said quietly, coming to stand beside him, placing a hand on the back of his neck.

o()o

"Connor?" Tapping tentatively on her guest room door, Danae heard Murphy shift and snuffle from where he was napping on the living room couch a split second before Connor's voice invited her in.

Opening the door, she stopped, surprised to see him kneeling at the daybed, hands clasped, head bowed. "I'll be right there, Danae," he said before resuming his prayer, lips moving quickly, murmuring a language she didn't know.

Danae felt heat rush to her face, chagrined for having disturbed something that seemed so personal. "I'm sorry," she said softly, moving to back out of the room, "I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Ending his prayer, Connor got to his feet with a wince and offered her a warm smile, shaking his head. "Ye're fine."

Nodding, fidgeting nervously with the item in her pocket, she stared at the dents that Connor's elbows had made in the bedspread as he had prayed.

"Danae?" he prompted, amused, quirking an eyebrow. "I was only prayin', girl. Ye're acting like ye fuckin' snared me rapid."

It took her a full minute to catch his meaning, and the insinuation brought another rush of blood to her face. She could hear herself stammering, making some excuse, but Connor's chuckle cut short her nervous prattle.

"Relax," he said, grinning, "I'm only teasin' ye."

"Right."

Sobering, he came to stand next to her, thumbs hooking into his pockets. "I've actually been meanin' ta talk ta ye, ta make sure ye're all right after what happened at the hospital."

"Just another day in the life of the Saints," she quipped, and felt a guilty stab when, instead of the smile she'd been hoping for, Connor's face fell.

"I'm fine, really," she amended quickly, offering him a smile.

"There's nothin' fine about what happened," he muttered, looking away, the muscle in his jaw flexing. Shaking himself, he halfheartedly returned her smile, "now, what was it that ye wanted?"

The words she had been practicing all afternoon evaporated from her mind, leaving her stammering. "I have something of yours," she said, stumbling over the words, "and I thought you might want it back."

Pulling the offering out of her pocket, she held it up for him to see. The afternoon light gleamed off of the polished wooden beads and, thankfully, hid her clumsy repair job. Looking up from the gently swaying crucifix, Danae felt a jolt of apprehension as the smile slipped from Connor's face.

He extended an unsteady hand and closed his fingers reverently around the crucifix before moving to rub each of the beads.

He seemed achingly vulnerable at that moment, his eyes wide and overbright, as he looked up from the rosary and met her gaze. "Christ, Danae," he whispered.

"Are you okay?" It was a stupid question, but it was the only thing she could think to say, holding out a beseeching hand.

Connor chuckled, blinking hard, "I am, aye."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, no, no," he was quick to reassure her, "t'is nothin' like that."

"What's goin' on?" A groggy voice asked, and Danae turned to see Murphy, leaning in the doorway, tattooed hand rubbing his eyes, his dark hair sticking out wildly.

He paused mid-rub, frowning as he took a closer look at his brother. "Ye all right, Conn?"

Nodding slowly, Connor held up his rosary. The change over Murphy was startling and just as powerful as it had been for Connor. His hands trembled slightly as he took the strand of beads, carefully examining each one.

Forgotten for the moment, Danae watched them, wondering at the meaning behind the religious keepsake.

Gently touching each polished bead, unknowingly echoing Connor's actions from before, Murphy pressed the crucifix briefly against his lips before returning to his brother. "How did ye --?"

"I didn't." Connor said, his eyes flicking to Danae.

Murphy turned around, eyebrows raised. "Ye did this?"

She nodded uncertainly, "It's not very pretty, but I think it'll hold."

Slipping the rosary around his neck, Connor dropped the cross into his shirt. "Ye did fine," he said quietly.

Murphy nodded his agreement. "Keep us company for a smoke?" he asked, pressing a warm hand against the small of her back.

"I'll meet up with the two o' ye in a bit," Connor said, his hand going to where the rosary was hidden, toying with it through the fabric of his shirt, "think I'll take her for a test drive first."

o()o


	38. Chapter 38

o()o

_**Author's Note: **Well, I guess this is it . . .thanks to everyone who came along for the ride. I've had a great time, met some utterly fantastic people, and even made a few friends. I hope you all had as much fun as I did! Also, take a peek at my profile letter and lend me your opinion . . .I'm dying without a project!  
**Nifty Fact for the Day:**_ dheireadh _is gaelic for 'the end'_

o(38)o

_Gangland War Ends In Bloodbath _

Feet up on his desk, Idol Ford flipped casually through the morning paper, pausing to skim the headlining story.

The entire group of _Sacerdotes de la Calle_ had apparently been wiped out by the Russian mafia. Something about territory and drug dealing claims.

It was a very plausible story, backed up by a respectable group of South Boston detectives and a very reputable agent from the F.B.I. It was neat, concise and easily solved, exactly what the public would want to hear.

Idol knew better.

He had a few 'acquaintances' on the force and, after a handful of phone calls, was well aware of the pieces that had been omitted by the media. There was the trail of bludgeoned corpses that led to the hotel-turned-slaughterhouse where the _Sacerdotes _had been found, and the shiny pennies that had been left in the eyes of each and every one of the butchered gang members. No Russian mafia that he knew did that, and he had represented more than his share.

He remembered reading about pennies in the newspaper, not too long ago. A pair of serial killers had been leaving them as calling-cards in the eyes of their victims, a killing spree that had creshendoed in the very public execution of one of his firm's most profitable clients.

The Saints of South Boston, the paper had called them. Another interesting case that had been turned into a very plausible story, backed up by a respectable group of South Boston detectives and a very reputable agent from the F.B.I.

The media'd had a field day with it, however, if he remembered correctly.

There had been a rash of copycats, in the weeks following, Idol had even represented a few in court, but none of the would-be viligantes possessed the panache of the original. And somewhere amidst the chaos, the actual men had simply slipped, unnoticed through the cracks, leaving only bullet-riddled corpses and a plethora of burnished pennies behind.

He had two such pennies on his desk. They were older coins, but polished to a perfect shine, gleaming under his office lights.

Whether the coins were left in his office by accident or as a deliberate warning, Idol didn't know. Either way, shortly after the morning he found them under his chair, his business associates started turning up dead.

Somehow, someone had connected him with the ill-fated _Sacerdotes_. Someone had broken into his office and left the coins, and someone had executed an entire gang with brutality that was downright impressive.

Unless you were on the receiving end of it of course.

It wasn't the first time someone had threatened Idol, and he was sure that it wouldn't be the last. The only way around it was to find whoever was doing the threatening and take them out of the equation.

Once he started looking, it would only be a matter of time before he found these particular coin enthusiasts, and once he found them, Idol decided that retribution was going to be slow, and probably quite unpleasant.

The thought of it made him smile.

Leaning back in his chair, Idol flipped to the business section of the newspaper. At least his stocks were up.

o()o

"I am _so_ glad to be home." Nigel announced, dropping his suitcase on the floor and moving to flop into Smecker's oversized chair.

Setting his own luggage down, Smecker surveyed his apartment with a sigh. Everything was exactly the same as he had left it, every piece of artwork, every stick of furniture, every scrap of paper. Not a single thing had been altered, but the place seemed alien to him as though everything had changed.

Or maybe it was he who had changed.

He had returned home with a suitcase full of dirty laundry and another set of skeletons for his closet. He had glossed over another mess that the Saints had created. He had smoothed over hard, cold, bloodstained, evidence with a carefully created plaster of lies. There were so many to keep up with now, some so old they were beginning to sound like the truth.

"Paul?" Nigel was watching him closely, eyebrows raised.

"I'm sick and friggin' tired of lying for those two." The confession was unbidden and, he discovered, unstoppable. "Everytime they pull shit like this, I'm the one that has to risk my career and my _life_ to clean up the mess."

"Ah the trials and tribulations of being a good guy."

Smecker scoffed, "Yeah, right, some good guy. Nothing says virtue like lying, perjury and obstruction of justice."

"It's not virtue that makes good guys good, it's the sacrifices you make."

"You should write for friggin' Hallmark. I'm getting misty over here."

"I'm serious," Nigel insisted, dodging the smack that was coming toward him. "How many innocent people are alive today because of the Saints? Hm? Those people wouldn't be here today if you weren't protecting those two."

Refusing to be moved by the other man's sincerity, Smecker sighed, looking away as the root of the problem surfaced. "I've become the very thing I'm supposed to be stopping."

"Is that what you think?"

At once solemn, Nigel reached for a pack of smokes on the nearby end table and tapped one out. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull, his usual flamboyance curiously absent.

"Did I ever tell you that I had a brother?" he asked softly.

Smecker blinked, surprised as much by the sudden subject change as by Nigel's abrupt somberness. "No."

The other man nodded. "I did. Jules was two years older than me, he was the greatest brother anyone could ask for. I idolized him."

Sitting down in the chair across from Nigel, Smecker retrieved a cigarette of his own. Striking a match, he leaned forward, wordlessly offering the other man his attention.

"He loved sleight of hand," Nigel paused, chuckling at some distant memory, "He'd spend hours practicing, pulling stuff out of my ears. Coins, toys, anything he could get his hands on, it didn't matter to Jules."

Exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, Nigel took a deep breath before continuing. "He was shot and killed by some heroin junkie when he was seventeen. He had gone out to run some errand, I don't even remember what it was now, but he was murdered for his shoes and the thirteen dollars in his wallet."

Smecker frowned at the other man and Nigel swallowed hard, looking away.

When their eyes met again, Nigel's were hard and cold. "And I'll tell you, Paul, that there isn't a day that goes by that I don't pray for someone like Connor and Murphy to find the piece of shit that killed Jules and blow his head off."

Smecker stared, flabbergasted by this side of Nigel he had never seen. As quick as it was there, the anger faded from his eyes and his features softened.

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on Smecker's knee. "That's what you don't get. The things you do, the sacrifices you make, it doesn't matter if the Saints care or not, none of this is for them, it's for the victims and the families left behind. And those people care more than you could ever imagine."

Smiling, some of the sparkle returning to his dark eyes, Nigel patted Smecker's knee, breaking the moment between them.

"Come on, I'll get you a little cheese to go with your _whine._"

Raising an eyebrow, Smecker debated on a retort, but instead he leaned forward, whispering in the other man's ear.

Nigel jumped at the words and gave him a wide eyed stare. "Paul," he exclaimed, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline, "you whore."

o()o

His hands were shaking.

The last time Connor had been in this room, he'd had blood drying on his hands and a writhing pit of fury where his spirit should have been.

The anger was gone now, but his hands were stained with a completely different kind of blood, one that he was afraid would never fully wash away.

Pushing the privacy curtain aside and stepping further into the hospital room, he wished he'd had another cigarette before coming, or at least that he hadn't left Murphy and Danae in the cafeteria downstairs.

The room was the same as it had been that first time, dimly lit and awash with a quiet cachophony of beeps and drips, the uniform rasp of the ventilator marking the passing time. The bed in the center of the room was sterile, crisp and white and a lone sliver of sunlight illuminated its inhabitant, unmoving and silent.

The last time, he'd barely spared her a glance in his consuming need for vengeance. Now, she was the only thing he saw.

He wished he could have consoled himself that she looked peaceful. He wished he could have told himself that she looked like that sleeping princess in the story, waiting for her prince to awaken her with a kiss.

But it would have been a lie.

Most of the tubes and wires that were sticking in her looked painful and a pale hand rested on her abdomen, covering the ragged hole the bullet had torn through her fragile body. It was hidden under sterile bandages and starched fabric, but Connor knew it was there.

No kiss in the world was going to wake this princess.

Pulling up a chair, he took Maire's hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. Her hand seemed so small inside of his, bird-fragile and unnaturally cool.

For a moment, the words refused to come, blocked by grief and guilt and pain. What could he say to her? "'Llo, darlin' he finally whispered, "I, ah . . . I don't know if ye can hear me, I hope so."

He shifted a little in his seat, glancing around at the variety of medical equipment that surrounded them. None of it made any sense to him and it didn't seem fair to trust something as precious as someone's life to something as stupid as a cluster of machines. Who knew what she was really going through? Where was the machine that would show him the damage he had caused and the pain he had inflicted?

Clearing his throat, he looked away from the equipment, every beep and rasp suddenly sounding like an accusation. "I talked ta Dolly, you remember him? He told me that Sasha is staying with a foster family right now and they're just crazy about her. I knew ye'd want ta hear she's all right. They told Murph and me that we could visit whenever we wanted. They're good people."

The sound of footsteps startled him, and Connor looked up to see a nurse pushing aside the privacy curtain. She offered him a tentative smile before moving quickly to check all the machines. He returned her smile wanly and waited until she slipped back out of the room before speaking again.

"The nurses tell me that ye aren't doin' so well, that ye probably won't ever wake up." Swallowing hard, he looked down at Maire, and squeezed her hand a little tighter, "I told them they could take that and shove it right up their arse, that they don't fuckin' know ye like I do."

He chuckled quietly, "I don't think I can repeat what Murphy told them. God would likely strike me dead on the spot for such language."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, He had hoped that his presence would somehow pull Maire from the depths of her coma, that the sound of his voice would provide a guide for her to follow from wherever she was now.

It happened all the time on television.

But, she didn't acknowledge that he was there. She didn't move. Another hushed sigh from the ventilator provided a poignant reminder that this wasn't television, and his hopes were as asinine as they were ineffective.

Sucking in a deep breath, shutting his eyes tightly, he braced himself against the guilt that was clenching around his chest. He had known that Maire wouldn't wake up, but it still felt as though he had failed her.

Again.

Warmth gathered in his eyes and he swiped at it impatiently, Suddenly, a dam broke in his head and the words were flooding from him. "I'm so fuckin' sorry. I'm so sorry that I couldn't protect ye from all this shite, that I couldn't keep ye safe. I'm so fuckin' sorry, Maire and I hope that someday ye can forgive me. If ye can, I swear ta God I'll spend the rest o' my life makin' it up to ye. Wake up. Please wake up and let me make things right, let me do the things I should have done in the first place. Let me say the things I should have said."

Silence was his only reply.

"Ye have ta keep fightin', darlin', your _galya_ needs you."

_And so do I._

Her hand clasped between both of his, Connor prayed for them both, the silvery Latin coming to him easily. He prayed through sharp stabs of remorse and through the gaping hole that Maire had left within him. He prayed until he ran out of prayers to recite, and his shoulders felt a little lighter.

Pressing Maire's hand against his forehead, he ended his divine entreaties, genuflecting, unmindful of the tears on his cheeks.

"I should get goin'," he said, sniffling quietly, "Murph's waitin' for me downstairs."

Standing, he leaned over the metal railing and kissed Maire's forehead gently. "I love ye, and I don't care what the chances are or how long it takes for ye ta find your way back, I'll be waiting right here for ye."

o( _dheireadh_)o


	39. Credits

_**Author's Note:** I know that they don't really like these sorts of chapters on this site, but these people are much to important to go unthanked._

_First, to Archerlove, my amazing beta. For every time she had to correct my punctuation, call me on some ridiculous plot twist, or email me saying I forgot to attach the file I needed help with, her endless patience, honest editing suggestions and brilliant brainstorming are the reasons that Game of Chance was finished. I couldn't have asked for a more supportive and enthusiastic beta and I'm honored to call her my friend._

_To IrishJeeper, who took the time to contact me and leave her reviews in person, there's nothing quite as fun as a voicemail from a reader. She's had a lot going on this year, but she remained as upbeat and kind as ever, even going so far as to check on me when I missed my posting. You're the best sweetie, there's nobody who cares about our guys quite like you do!_

_Next, to Aranatta, ever the brainstorming master, his help on the fight scenes was almost as fun to watch was it was to write. Thank you for your unflinching concrit, roleplaying madness and brainstorming sessions._

_To Kizume A.W, Goddess of Rage, and Ash Corvus for just being their wonderful selves. I love you guys!_

_And to everyone who took the time to read and review, especially BookwormFFW and SparksDiamond who reviewed every single chapter of GoC, I'm so lucky to have readers like you!_

_To show my appreciation:_

"Say Murph . . . " Connor burst in the patio door and froze, the smile slipping from his face.

Murphy was leaning in the doorway of Danae's living room, uncharacteristically still as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

"Aye," he said softly, his face unreadable, "aye, I see."

"Murph?" Connor whispered, a sinking pit forming in his stomach. Something wasn't right.

Murphy ignored him, listening intently, "and when did this happen? All right. All right, thank ye."

Ending the call, he tossed the phone onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair and bringing a thumb to his mouth.

"Sit down, Conn," he said gently.

"Murphy, what the fuck is going on?"

Still staring at the phone, Murphy was silent for an endless moment, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth, the other hand figiting absently with an unlit cigarette. "That was the hospital," he said at last, "they were callin' about Maire."

_No. Oh, God, no._

The bottom plummeted out Connor's stomach and his world. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell heavily into Danae's armchair pressing a fist against his mouth. This couldn't be happening, it was too fucking soon.

He wasn't ready.

He had tried to prepare himself for the day that Maire would lose the battle she'd been fighting for so long, for the day _he_ would lose _her_. But now, faced with the reality of her death, Connor realized that he was hopelessly unprepared and nothing he could have done would have prevented that.

She was gone.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, bowing his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes. How was he going to tell Sasha? How could he explain to a three year old that the mother she barely remembered was dead?

A warm hand settled on his knee and he looked up into Murphy's worried eyes.

"Conn?"

"When . . . " his voice failed him, choked off by grief and loss. He swallowed against the ache in his throat and tried again, "when did she die?"

"Die?" Murphy shook his head, frowning, "Christ, Connor, did ye not hear a single word that I've said to ye?"

Mind numb, heart raw and bleeding, Connor shook his head. Murphy's expression softened. "She didn't die, Conn, she started breathin' on her own this morning."

Moving to kneel before him, Murphy offered Connor a hint of a smile and a steadying hand on his forearm, "they took her off the ventilator about an hour ago. Nothing's certain, but the doctors think that she might be tryin' ta wake up."

_Much Love,_

_GoddessLaughs_


End file.
